The Words Do Not Come
by trascendenza
Summary: An AU piece. Occurs in 1975. Attempts to answer the question of what would bring Ennis to Jack, instead of the other way around. COMPLETE.
1. Part I: An Intruder

**Title: **The Words Do Not Come, Part I

**Author:** Sheera

**Date written:** May 5, 2006

**Pairing:** Jack/Ennis

**Rating: **PG (for now)

**Plot summary: **An AU piece.

**Word count:** 666 – yes, I am the Devil.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.

**Author's Note:** This piece attempts to answer a question that I have always wondered about the Jack/Ennis dynamic. I very consciously stepped away from Proulx's style in this one, because I realized that to write the kind of AU I wanted, I would have to. Hence the use of the present tense. Sorry if it's awkward; I'm still getting used to it.

**Feedback:** Please, please, please. You really have no idea how happy it makes it.

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Jack is jarred from his sleep by what sounds like a storm rattling their home. His eyes jerk open, and he finds himself sitting up in bed without the slightest clue of what's going on.

"Mmmhmm nnnmmm…" mumbles Lureen sleepily, motioning in the general direction of the front door before rolling over and resuming her soft snoring. The pounding returns, louder and more desperate than before.

"Guess that leaves me," he says, resigned, pulling his boots on. They somehow match his pajamas—Lureen has coordinated him down to the shoes. He rummages in the closet for his shotgun, which they keep out of reach from Bobby until he's old enough to know caution, and walks down the stairs with heavy feet. If it's a buglar he's going to shoot him first, ask questions later. He's too sleepy to deal with this right now.

"Hol' your horses! I'm comin'." The banging only increases in tempo and insistency.

Jack cautiously unlocks the door, and steps back, the gun already forgotten in his curiosity about who would be here at this hour. "I'm goin' a open it real nice and slow now, no funny business."

As soon as the lock _snicks_ open, a man is through the door, screaming incoherent rage and in a blur of motion there's a fist flying into Jack's face, hitting him so swiftly and squarely that he drops the gun and stumbles back a few steps. He feels blood seep from his nose, and raises his hand just in time to block the follow-up assault. He tries to gain some leverage to fight this man back, or at least fight him off, but the attack is too furious, and he trips on the shotgun, falling to the floor; there is a distinct _crack_ as his head makes contact with the slick hardwood. His vision clouds with dancing white spots as the blood roars in his head. He blearily sees the man towers over him, a dark shadow of violence, realizing that he's cocking his elbow back to deliver a crushing blow that will probably splinter Jack's nose into million pieces.

"Get your hands _off_ my husband this goddamned second, you scum-sucking sonofabitch!" Lureen is on the steps, holding a shotgun steady in her grip, one eye squinted as she aims at the stranger. Jack takes the opportunity to scramble up, the adrenaline making his body hum with nervousness, afraid for Lureen and himself—she has very little practice with guns. He almost hopes it isn't loaded. The spots slowly clear from his vision and he sees an unfortunately familiar face.

Ennis.

"Well, _fuck_ me," he says. "Put the gun down, Lureen. _Now_." She shoots him a skeptical glance, but when she sees that Ennis is making no further move to bash in her husband's face, she relents. Jack notices the familiar stench of whiskey even from two feet away, and Ennis looks as though he's been crying blood. He approaches Ennis slowly, unable to keep the questions at bay, "Ennis, are you all right? Is that your blood? How did you get here? Why didn't you call me? Why aren't you at ho—"

Ennis backs away, holding up his arms like a shield, crumpling from the inside, as if his bones melted under the heat of the inquiry, and falls to the ground.

Between the two of them they manage to get Ennis cleaned up, undressed, and into the guest bed. Jack talks non-stop to Ennis, trying to revive him or just to tell him what they're doing. Lureen returns to bed, saying not a word to Jack, but the questions and demands burn in her eyes. He watches Ennis, taking account of the injuries and the shallowness of his breath. Various scenarios play out in his mind, but he cannot imagine the hell Ennis has been through to get here. He passes out in the easy chair around four in the morning, straining to keep his eyes on his strangely peaceful lover.


	2. Part II: Breakfast

**Title: **The Words Do Not Come, Part II

**Author:** Sheera

**Date written:** May 5, 2006

**Pairing:** Jack/Ennis

**Rating: **PG-13 for language

**Plot summary: **An AU piece about what would bring Ennis to Jack.

**Word count:** 694

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.

**Author's Note:** Practicing my Jack/Lureen dialogue.

**Feedback:** Please, please, please. You really have no idea how happy it makes me.

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Lureen whips the batter fiercely, but watches Jack from the corner of her eye while she does it. He knows this doesn't bode well and wonders only half-jokingly if his face can take another beating so soon after the first. The spoon looks almost lethal the way she holds it, her purple-red fingernails the color of a wound.

"If that's what you call a friend, Jack, I'd be afraid t'see your enemies."

"I could a sworn we already conversated on this very thing, Lureen."

"It's not every day that I have to pick up a shotgun t'keep my husband from gettin' beat to a pulp."

"He's a mad drunk, and I ain't goin' excuse what he done. But it's over and it's time to let sleepin' dogs lie." He wants to tell her that it wasn't every day, or _ever_ actually, that Ennis drives to Texas to see him. But he doesn't think it will help matters any.

"That ain't the damn point. I don't know who he thinks he is, just walkin' in here and doin' somethin' like that without so much of a word of apology."

Jack is exhausted. He heaves a sigh, looking at Lureen plaintively. "Look, honey, somethin' damn terrible must a happened to Ennis to bring him here like that. He must a hitched, because his car ain't 'round here anywhere, and I found an empty bottle a whiskey outside, drunk dry. He's my friend, and my guest, so I'd appreciate it if you could give me a break. It's not like I enjoyed being whackin' me in th' face, but it cain't be undone by an apology anyway."

Lureen bites her lip, and nods quietly. He knows she doesn't understand, but even he doesn't understand, so nothing can be done about it.

The breakfast is huge by the time she has taken out her aggression on the ingredients. Pancakes dripping with maple syrup, bacon, hashbrowns, poached eggs and flaky sweet biscuits with strawberry jam. She hardly ever cooks, but when she does, she moves through the kitchen like a tornado, leaving food in her wake like the debris after a hurricane. Jack will tell Bobby to invite some friends over tonight to share in the wealth. He isn't the slightest bit hungry, stomach clenching with anxiety, but he takes a bit of everything and eats with gusto. Ennis is still in bed.

He has not said a word since he arrived.

Jack tells himself to be patient, but he can't help wondering,_ Why did he come _here?_ What does he want from me?_ He supposes he'll find that out in due time, as well.

"Is your _guest_ feelin' better, honey?" Lureen asks. The question marks still in her eyes are burning holes in his forehead, but her voice is more even.

"Seems like it t'me. I doubt he'd hardly slept at all for the past couple a days. Sure wish he'd tell me what happened."

"…he still hasn't said anything?" A little hostility tinges her words.

"Cain't say that he has."

Lureen chews her bacon carefully, eliciting a crackle-crunch sound from it. "How long's he goin' a stay here, Jack?"

Jack raises his eyebrow, "Long as he needs, 'course."

"That wasn't the question."

"How'm I s'posed to know? Man hasn't said a damned thing and I cain't read minds."

"It's jus'… I don't know how Daddy will feel about us keepin' him here for too long."

Jack throws his hands up in the air. "Well, shit, Lureen, what you want me t'do? I ain't a fuckin' miracle worker here."

They eat in silence for a few moments before she quickly says, "Maybe take 'im campin' for a few days. Isn't that what y'all usually do anyway? Maybe it'll make 'im feel better."

Jack stays the automatic refusal on his tongue, mulling over the idea. "That might not be a half bad idea."

He finishes breakfast, bracing himself to see Ennis again. Lureen tries to appear nonchalant, moving her fork through her hashbrowns, but she watches closely as Jack walks away.

Before disappearing from sight, he turns and says, "We'll leave tomorrow mornin'. I'm takin' the week off'a work."


	3. Part III: All Steamed Up

**Title: **The Words Do Not Come, Part III  
**Date written:** May 9, 2006  
**Pairing:** Jack/Ennis  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Plot summary: **An AU piece about what would bring Ennis to Jack. Occurs sometime between the divorce and their last meeting.

**Word count:** 1,239  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.  
**Author's Note:** It's so hard to write these fillers scenes. I have no patience for them. I'm hoping to barrel through them and get to the good stuff.

**Feedback:** Please, please, please. You really have no idea how happy it makes me.

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Jack knocks softly on the door before entering, knowing he won't get a response. Ennis is curled on the bed, obviously not asleep but perhaps not fully awake either. Jack returns to the easy chair, and shafts of sunlight play across Ennis's still form.

"We're goin' a the Mountains tomorrow, friend. Goin' a get away for a little while, get out a this damned house." Looking around the room, decorated by Lureen of course, he comments, "All this red 'n white's 'nough to drive a man mad, huh?"

He gets up, wanting to go to Ennis, to touch his hair and face, to see the secret in his eyes. Instead he hovers over the nightstand, fiddling, and moves around the water glass and framed pictures. He notices that Ennis is looking at their family portrait. Lureen in the dress her mother made her wear, Jack in the clothes Lureen made him wear, and Bobby in the clothes Jack made him wear—their smiles looked painted on, as if the artist couldn't muster up enough emotion to paint a convincing picture. Jack turns it face down.

"Well, I'm a go get some work done so they can manage without me f'r the week. Y'let me know the second you need anythin', awright?" Ennis moves his head a bit, burying it deeper into the pillow, and Jack understands it's the closest he'll get to an affirmation. There is a wish on the tip of Jack's tongue, but it remains undefined, and he lets it sit for the moment. He's not sure what else he can do.

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"Hey, son. What're workin' on there?" Jack says, leaning against the wall next to Bobby's desk.  
"Jus' doin' some dumb homework, Daddy. Mamma tol' me we got a guest. How come I ain't met 'im?" Bobby says, putting down his pencil, glad for an excuse to stop straining his eyes over the paper.  
"He ain't feelin' none too good right now, but when he's feelin' better I'm sure he'd love t'meet you."  
"Y'want me to call up Rob and Fred? They can help us finish the breakfast mamma made. I already had about five pancakes." He puffs his cheeks out and crosses his eyes. Jack, laughing, ruffles his hair.

"Now don't go makin' that face at Mamma, she'll lick you a new one, boy."  
"Y'think I'm stupid, Daddy? Sheesh. I ain't forgot what she did when I tol' her the pork was too salty."  
"That a boy. Now, listen, I want you to be real good for your Mamma the next week, 'cause I ain't goin' a be here. Behave yourself so's I don't have to stop your Mamma from whippin' you, now."  
"Awright. Where you goin' a be? I didn't know you was goin' to sell equipment this week."  
"I'm takin' Ennis away for a little while to help him feel better."  
"Why will goin' away make 'im feel better? We're real nice, we can give him lots a cough medicine and I'll make sure he has a throw-up bucket by his bed if you need."  
"That's mighty kind a you to offer Bobby, and I'm sure he'd 'preciate that. But he needs some fresh air, so we're goin' up to the mountains."

Bobby, scrunched up his brow, making his "why are adults so weird" face, and said, "Awright, Daddy. Whatever you say. But that cherry stuff always makes _me_ feel better."  
"Now you get back to that homework. Try'n finish before bedtime, hmm? Dinner's in about ten minutes."  
Bobby grumbles something incomprehensible and picks the pen up again. Jack wonders why he leans so close to the paper to read, thinking maybe he needs glasses. He'll have to tell Lureen about it later.

As he walks by the guest room, he hears the shower running. Relief uncoils in his chest like a napping cat. Ennis must be feeling better to shower. A shadow passes his face as the image of Ennis slitting his wrists under the water comes up in his thoughts, but he quickly quashes it. "Fuck, fuck… fuck." No way, no how. Despite his attempts to ignore the idea, it has taken hold of him, and he enters Ennis's room to wait for him to finish showering.

He tries to see the room as it must look through Ennis's eyes. It's like a hotel; the sheets pressed to a sharp edge, not a speck of dust on the dark mahogany shelves, all the pictures lined up perfectly along the wall, a mix of emotion-less family portraits and horse-themed paintings. It was almost as if some designer had come into this room and vomited red and white everywhere; it was hard to find a surface covered in something else. Not surprising considering they are Lureen's favorite colors, but Jack thinks that maybe it's time for a new look. He doubts she'll receive the suggestion warmly, though.

He gets up, deciding to make the bed instead of just twiddling his thumbs. The scent that is distinctly Ennis hits him as he rips the blanket off the bed, and he feels himself swelling against his jeans, hard. "Shit." He tries to finish the task at hand, debating between going and staying. Just as he decides that Ennis doesn't need to see him like this right now, the man of the hour emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of voluminous steam.

"Double shit," Jack whispers under his breath. Ennis is wearing the guest bathrobe, looking distinctly incongruous in the white fluffy fabric. Jack is floored by the domesticity of it—the Ennis he knows only ever wears boots and jeans. There's no space for bathrobe-wearing Ennis in Jack's brain.

Although he _is_ beautiful.

Ennis sits in the easy chair, not really looking at Jack, picking at his fingernails. Jack stares, oblivious, noticing the damp clinging in the folds of Ennis's neck, the tiny droplets of water catching the light, dripping from his hair. He turns back to making the bed, finding Ennis's scent infinitely safer than this foreign vision. When he's done, he sits on the bed, inconspicuously angling his hips away from Ennis's view.

"Y'want some dinner? Well, it's breakfast, actually, but it's still a damn fine meal."  
Ennis shakes his head.  
Jack, encouraged by the response, continues, "Y'feelin' any better? We don' have to go campin' if you don't want, I jus' thought you might like to get 'way for a spell."  
Ennis shrugs slightly.  
Jack takes this as a yes. "Okay, well, we're goin' up to a range a couple a hours from here. I already got the horses lined up for us, and we'll prolly leave after breakfast."

No further movement. Jack wants to ask how Ennis got those gashes on his face, if it still hurts, does he need any ice? But he leaves him be. He also needs a cold shower before dinner, which he sure as shit isn't going to take in this room.  
"Well, if you decide y'want to join us for dinner, it's just out the hall to the right. You're also welcome to grab leftovers whenever y'might want 'em."  
Ennis is statue-still, so Jack nods, says "right, well," and bee-lines for his bedroom.

Jack tries not to think about how long Ennis will keep this up. Only a day, and he's about to crack under the pressure of his own desire and confusion. When the stream of cold water hits him like a slap in the face, he says "Y'sure know how to test a man, Ennis del Mar."


	4. Part IV: Camping

**Title:** The Words Do Not Come, Part IV  
**Author:** Sheera  
**Date written:** May 11, 2006

**Pairing:** Jack/Ennis  
**Rating:** R (soft)  
**Plot summary:** An AU piece about what would bring Ennis to Jack. Occurs sometime between the divorce and their last meeting.

**Word count:** 1,552  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.  
**Author's Note:** Writing this was like pulling teeth. If you're at all interested in seeing me continue this series, I could use some encouragement.

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Jack stows the last of the gear in the back of his truck, securing the final straps and buckles. Ennis is sitting in the truck already, staring blankly ahead into space. All the lights are on, but as far as he can tell, no one is home. Jack has spent the morning debating back and forth about whether to go or stay. He still isn't sure what's best, but he does know that Ennis isn't too likely to share all his deepest secrets with all of Jack's family hovering around him. Not that Ennis is too likely to do it either way, but getting some privacy won't hurt Jack's chances.

"Y'all set, honey?" Lureen's question jars him from his wandering thoughts.

"Yep. Drive'll take us about four'n half hours, so it's best we get on our way."

"You make sure'n call me if it's goin' a be longer than a week, right?"

"Don't worry. I doubt it'll be longer, anyway."

Lureen nods, bites her lip and steals a quick glance at Ennis. "You be… careful, Jack. You promise me?" Although she phrased it like a question, the look on her face clearly brooked no disagreement.

"I can handle it, Lureen." She raises an eyebrow pointedly at him. "All right, all right… I will, I promise. Y'all just don't go'n have too much fun without me now." He gives her a light hug and kiss on the cheek before getting into the car.

Lureen watches them drive until they are out of sight, worrying at her lip. Sighing with resignation, she walks back to the house, posture heavy. She wishes she knew exactly what Jack should be careful of—what was he getting himself into? One last look over her shoulder, and she closes the door. Time to get back to work.

In the car, Jack gets himself comfortable, adjusting his left foot and elbow in a few different contortions before he finds the one he likes best. He learned long ago that comfort is a necessity on a fourteen-hour drive and now it is just habit. Turning up the radio, he looks at Ennis sideways, "Y'mind? I like to listen a music when'm drivin'."

He turns it a little higher and settles in. The land stretches out before him, yellow against blue, dried out brush rippling like shivering flesh. Jack lets his mind wander to work, going through mental checklists and reviewing his calendar. He ponders some plausible explanations he can give L.D. when he returns from his business trip, but can't muster enough concern to worry on it, even though he knows Lureen is going to need help dealing with him. He occupies himself thinking about anything other than Ennis, and before he knows it, they've arrived. Winding his way through the curved mountain road, he talks to replace the sound of the radio which just lost reception.

"Right, well this place's called Memorias de la Muerte. Can't rightly say I know what that means. Think someone tol' me that it's named that 'cause them Mexicans was pissed we kicked 'em off. Been here a couple a times, it's pretty good fishin." _Not that we ever fish… not that I ever wanted to._

He takes the appropriate turn-off, his truck protesting a bit as it goes along the deep ruts and potholes. The campsite is a small valley, bordered to the north by hills and keyholed in the large lake, Lágrimas de la Muerte. Jack thinks maybe he should have tried harder to find a place with friendlier-sounding names. He begins unpacking the truck and to his surprise, Ennis joins him. He seems to be on some kind of auto-pilot, falling into the familiar routine not out of any desire, only habit. They make quick work of the camp, setting up the tent and firepit, and Ennis takes care of the horses. The silence, usually a testament to their easy camaraderie, itches at Jack's mouth.

Jack cooks them an early dinner of corn, beans, and pork chops. He's picked up a few things over the years from Lureen, so it's a passably good meal. The drinks stay in the cooler, the mood too somber for beer. He can't say he isn't tempted to pull out the whiskey, but the still-smarting yellowish-purple bruise on his jaw reminds him he needs to stay on his toes. He hopes they can share the bottle later this week.

The stars prick through the black sky, points of brilliance against the velvety dark. Ennis stares straight into the fire, flames reflected in his eyes, his lips pulled tight. Jack has noticed that Ennis has studiously avoided any eye contact, but he doesn't push it. He's afraid of that wild look that was on Ennis's face when he first showed up at their doorstep. There was something unhinged inside him, and even Jack has learned from all the psycho-babble that Lureen watches on TV that repression is bad, he still feels relieved to see that Ennis has done just that.

He is too young to die, especially when he doesn't know what he's done to deserve it.

When the moon nocks at half past one, Ennis goes into the tent, barely making a sound. Jack is enjoying the heat of the dying fire, and the farther away he is when Ennis is changing (if he bothers to), the better. Losing count somewhere around the sixty-fifth star, Jack dozes in his chair, mouth hanging askew, open to the night air.

He is pulled from his sleep by the sound of the tent shaking. Confused, eyes adjusting to the dark, he sees the tent thrashing around as if there's a storm inside it. Stumbling up as quickly as he can, he runs over, managing to trip three times in less than twenty feet. He catches the moving tent flap and ducks in.

"Ennis!"

He's flailing in his sleep, punching the walls of the tent and the floor, legs scissoring. One of his kicks catches Jack in the shins, and he goes down, landing hard. "Ennis, wake up!" He finally wrangles Ennis, struggling to hold his arms down and pinning him with his body. "I said, _wake the fuck up_,you sonofabitch!"

Ennis's eyes abruptly snap open and he stops struggling. His face quickly distorts when he sees Jack, twisting into a mask of pain that squeezes the breath in Jack's chest.

"Are you okay? It was just a dream, Ennis."

Ennis's face clears, and for the first time, he looks at Jack. His expression is hopeful and heartbreaking all at once.

Jack slowly loosens his hold on Ennis's arms, leaning back. "What was you dreamin' about?" Ennis's answer is to come at Jack, grabbing his face and frantically kissing all the breath out of him. Jack's body responds long before his mind realizes what's going on; his pants are already around his ankles and he's stripped off Ennis's shirt when he understands what Ennis is up to. By now, he could care less if it's a good idea or not. He's fed up with good ideas, and damned if he's going to try and think when Ennis is all primed and ready. They kiss deeply, bodies clinched tightly, chest to chest and thigh to thigh. Without preamble, Ennis flips Jack onto his knees, hardly bothering to wait a second before entering him roughly, not even a buffer of saliva this time. Jack groans, bucking against the familiar feeling, driven near the edge just to feel Ennis again.

Ennis increases his tempo, but he becomes quiet, his harsh, forced breathing the only counterpoint to Jack's moans. His nails scrape along Jack's skin hard enough to draw blood, and Jack stills, crossing over the fine border between pleasure and pain. He lets Ennis pound into him, not a sound, even as he collapses on top of Jack, spent. Jack eases out from under him, hearing that his breathing is already returning to normal, and hurriedly slips his clothes on. He doesn't look back, can't.

He wanders aimlessly for awhile, walking gingerly, until he comes upon a tree that seems like a good place to stop. Leaning against it, he lights a cigarette. He tries to ignore the aches, physical and otherwise, but the thought still haunts him, _What do we got if that ain't right between us?_ It had been worse than their first time, and he didn't think Ennis would be coming to him with his tail tucked between his legs this time.

He fights the tears, howling his frustration, holding on the tree for support while the scream rips from his lungs, and kicks it so hard his boot nearly cracks. He damns all the times he wished Ennis would come to Texas, show up one night on his doorstep. Of course, he hadn't counted on being socked in the face first thing. _Whyt did he come if he cain't even stand to look at me? Did he get kicked out a his trailer or somethin' and he don't want to admit or somethin'? Doesn't make any goddamn sense, what did I do to him to deserve a punch in the face instead of a 'hello, Jack, long time no see'?_

Limping back to camp, he wipes the moisture from his face. One of them has to be strong.


	5. Part V: The Spring

**Series:** The Words Do Not Come

**Part V:** The Spring  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters—that honor goes to Ms. Proulx.  
**Author's Note:** By the time I finish this fic, I will have no teeth left. That is all. Oh, and my Texas doesn't resemble the real one. :)

**Part V: The Spring**

Jack saddles the horses, determined that today is going to be the day. The natural optimism that has buoyed him through the choppy river rapids, navigating the waters of their interactions, bubbles to the surface once more. Despite the strangeness of it all, he knows that deep down if he could just stay out here with Ennis like this, he'd be a happy man. Nowhere else does he feel as alive.

"Let's git, cowboy. I want a do me a little huntin', and there's a spring that might be runnin' out there, too. I think it's the right time a year. Scrub a little a this grime off ourselves, hmm?"

Ennis rubs his horse's face, nuzzling him softly, and making soft nonsense noises in his throat. Jack quashes a pang of jealously, spurring his horse forward a bit to show he doesn't care, and looks to the sky, weather-eyed. He hears Ennis following behind him, and sets off at a brisk pace, eager to get going, to put the past few days behind them and find something better. There has to be something better. They wind their way through the land, skirting rock faces that bleed warm layers of color, vivid reds and yellow intermingling along the edges. As they enter the deeper foliage, Jack gets his gun ready, fingers thrumming with anticipation. The sun dapples the ground in speckled, translucent diamond-shapes and Jack is relieved to enter the peaceful silence of the trees; the air even feels lighter, less tense.

Jack senses a good spot to switch to foot, stops and tethers his horse. He takes off his black, weather-beaten Resistol, hands on his hips, scoping out the land. He looks over to Ennis briefly; Ennis stays on his horse, staring at nothing and everything. Jack could almost mistake him for someone else. He's wearing Jack's hat and clothes, and his face is cut in half by a sharp, triangular gash of a shadow. The vision sends an inexplicable shiver up his spine and he turns away, biting his lip. Walking slowly from the outside of his foot in, his breath slows and he sinks into the silence, letting his hearing scout out any potential prey. As the forest saturates him, he is able to let go of the tightness in his shoulders and neck, to breathe in and out, to be thoughtless and content.

After about twenty minutes of searching, he sees a rabbit foraging for food at the edge of a field, probably trying to soak up some heat after the recent cold spell. He slows his pace bit by bit as he approaches, raising the twenty gauge, simultaneously lowering his body. Getting the rabbit in his sights, he senses its innocence, its blissful ignorance. It has no idea that Jack holds its death in his hands, the mere twitch of a trigger, and no more. A strong pang hits him, constricting his throat, and he shoots, closing his eyes with the overwhelming wish for a return to ignorance.

He carries the rabbit back to his horse, face blank and empty. Kicking at the underbrush as he goes, he decides they'll just head back to camp and cook up the rabbit instead of lighting out for the spring. Not like Ennis will object one way or the other. But when he sees his horse, munching away happily at the foliage, he realizes he assumed too quickly. Ennis is nowhere in sight, but his horse's tracks are leading in the direction of the springs. Did he tell Ennis where they were? And more important, was Ennis _listening_?

"Well, shit in a bucket. Guess I got a follow him." Jack stows the rabbit in the small cooler in his saddlebag and follows the tracks. Through the brush and craggy path they lead unerringly to the spring. _Now how in th'hell did he do that? Sneaky bugger._ He tethers his horse next to Ennis's, turning the corner of the rock face to see that he's already taken full advantage of the water. Jack raises his eyebrow, walking quickly, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he goes. He knows an opportunity when he walks into one. Ennis lays back, arms spread to his sides, head resting on his shoulder and lolling back. The bubbling water distorts his body below his chest, and he's been in long enough to start sweating a little, the steam matting and curling his hair against his head. Jack licks his lips in appreciation. _Well if he ain't just Mr. Fuckin' GQ._

Jack slips into the water, moving his body just so to avoid touching Ennis. He's decided not to make the first move, but there's only so far he can push himself. As soon as he's settled against the rock, the liquid heat enclosing his body, and he closes his eyes, understanding the necessity of it. Jack's tongue is practically jumping out his mouth to taste the condensation gathering in the join between Ennis's ear and jaw-line; he clamps down on his lips, hard. Temptation comes in many different flavors and textures—Jack's is the iridescence of pure water and the flavor of a fresh mountain creek.

Inch by inch, he melts into the heat. By sheer force of will, he manages to stop thinking of Ennis and simply enjoy himself; he can practically feel his muscles uncoil from their tight clinching. As he begins to feel himself drowsing, he hears Ennis get out of the water. _Keep your damn eyes closed, Twist._ He repeats the phrase over and over in his mind but his eyelids creep up fraction by fraction, regardless. Ennis is stretched out in the sun, turned away from Jack, taut and wiry like a rope, the perfect mixture of soft lines and hard angularities. Jack's body moves with a will of its own, rising from the water so quickly that it spills over the edges of the spring, lapping on the rocky shore.

Then he's touching that golden skin, digging his fingertips in, tasting it, meeting heat with heat, sliding up alongside him, and he's tentative, desperate but unsure, but Ennis is embracing him, and they twine, like the coils of a rope, fitting together in a weave of eros. Jack kissing and licking, devours the taste of his temptation, the sweet spring water mixing with the salt-leather-grass that is distinctly Ennis, moving down, to the center of his body, and he's moving his mouth over the pulsing velvet of Ennis's unspoken desire, taking and giving at the same time—taking in the passion, the pushing need, and giving it free rein, a place where it can burn fierce.

And they find synchronicity, the art in the push and pull, and Jack is trembling with the intensity of it, digging his nails into Ennis's hips, wanting more of him, always more—and then Ennis is groaning, nearing the precipice, his voice getting louder and louder—

—but then it becomes something else, cracking and breaking, the cry of a man shattered, and Jack takes Ennis in his arms, soaking up his sorrow, feeling it in the very depth of his bones, whispering meaningless nothings in his ear, and there is no resistance, just surrender. And although Ennis isn't speaking, his body and soul seem to be screaming out a refusal—_no, no, no_—and Jack wishes he could tell Ennis it's all right, but he doesn't know that it is.

_The next day_

Jack goes through the day in a stupor, making the appropriate motions at the appropriate time but not much else. He thinks maybe he left his will to live behind at that spring. Ennis's silence is like a black hole, pulling Jack in closer and closer, snatching the words and thoughts from his mind before they have time to properly form. Even the fact that Ennis is now occasionally stealing glances at him does not cheer him up. He can't even muster up the will to prepare them dinner; he's not the least bit hungry and doubts Ennis cares much either way. Ennis's return to his catatonia was swift and total right after they left the spring; they left its protective bubble behind and Jack doesn't know where to go from here.

As the night falls on the land, Jack pokes the fire, opening a bottle of whiskey. He knows it's a bad idea to drink on an empty stomach, does it anyway. The stars bite through the dusk, and Jack fixates on them, unable to look at Ennis. The void between them seems to have a palpable shape.

After his first four swigs hit him, his insides warm up, and the words start to fall from his mouth, clattering down, like the multi-colored marbles from a child's jar.

"Y'know, Ennis, I've been wonderin' lately if'n it was such a good idea to married so young. It ain't that I ain't happy with my marriage, don't get me wrong—but I worry about Bobby sometimes 'cause, well… Lureen and me are okay… but I 'member what it was like watchin' my ma and pa. They'd act like touchin' each other with a ten foot pole was too close, leastaways my dad would sometimes. And I always wished they was like other folks' parents, more friendly and kissy-like. I hope Bobby don't feel the same way 'bout us."

He takes another swig, exhaling hot vapor.

"Tell you what… I ain't been able to enjoy a single night with Lureen since we started meetin' again. That's the sad truth. Not that I been neglectin' her or nothin', but, well…aw, hell, you know what I mean. An' what kind a idea was havin' a kid with Lureen anyhow? I love the boy, but I don't know the first fuckin' thing 'bout bein' a daddy. Not that lots a folks haven't shared their views a what I _ought_ a do, but I cain't pay them no mind, neither. And it ain't like I had lots a great examples a daddies growin' up, neither.

"Y'ever wonder what your kids think a you? You was talkin' 'bout people on the pavement knowin'…well, sometimes, I swear that boy knows all my secrets. He may not be the best in school, but as he gets older I wonder if he don't understand me better'n he ought. Got some fuckin' intuition or some shit goin' on, there."

Jack takes another long, forceful swallow.

"I ain't even sure what in th'hell I should do. I mean, here I am in the middle of bumfuck nowhere—oh, excuse me, Memories of Marty Hoo-Haw Park or some shit like that—talkin' like a coyote who's get his head stickin' out a his ass, when I ought a be home, workin' like any reg'lar decent man." He runs his hand over his face, grimacing. "Instead, here I am wonderin' to myself if'n it's so bad you ain't talkin' if you'll just fuck me silly while you do it." He barks out a laugh that doesn't contain even the smallest sliver of good humor. "What th'fuck is wrong with me, Ennis? _Goddamn_ it." Jack polishes off the bottle, staring morosely into the fire, and he doesn't notice Ennis worrying at a hangnail, doesn't see the sudden clarity that comes into his eyes. Ennis's mouth opens and closes a few times, sentences aborting before they are created, but on the fourth try his voice comes out quiet and pebbly, stale from disuse, "Jack… How'd you get that bruise on your face?"

At first Jack doesn't react, and then he laughs so hard he cries.


	6. Part VI: The Return

**Part VI: The Return**

Jack pulls into the driveway, emotions warring and wavering—he's glad to be back, disappointed, worried, with a splash of relieved on top. He has missed Bobby quite a bit, and he _was_ going a little crazy listening to the sound of his own voice so much. He has to wonder when he developed such a noticeable drawl—has he really lived here that long? He used to laugh when he his neighbors drew the word "cow" out into three distinct syllables, and now here he was, the butt of his own private joke. Ennis started to speak up some after his initial quiet inquiry—_I'll saddle her up, pass the whiskey, c'mere, c'mere—_but he was still very withdrawn, even for him. Jack mistakenly attempted to ask what was wrong, what brought Ennis out here, and saw the progress he'd made over four days begin to unravel before his eyes. Ennis's face blanched so quickly and utterly that it was all Jack could do not to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness for whatever he'd done wrong. So, he stepped back once more, respecting the distance that Ennis was requesting, and did his best to keep things light and pleasant. He hopes it will be easier now that he's home. Even if he wants to, he can't talk to Ennis about personal issues in front of Lureen or Bobby, so that will remove some of his difficulty—and present new ones.

Sighing, he puts the car into park and opens his car door quietly; the household is probably asleep by now. He tried to get an early start this morning but somehow he got sidetracked by Ennis's dick, a most distracting proposition. He can't deny that his spirits have improved vastly now that they are back to normal in at least one sense; it's nice to have something familiar to hold on to amongst all this new territory. But in his heart of hearts, he knows that he would trade it all in a second if he could be the calm to Ennis's hurt, an ear to his confidences. _If I could lose a finger for each of your secrets, Ennis, I'd have a collection of useless stubs by the time I finished. But Lord knows I'd do it._

The passenger door slams with a resounding _thwack_ when Ennis gets out, and Jack jumps a little. _Must a been off in the fields spoolin' wool with the sheep, like Grandma used to tell me_. He does a quick check of the interior to check that he's grabbed everything, pretending he's just being thorough instead of hesitant, and follows Ennis inside. They can unpack later—all Jack wants now is a good night's sleep. The house stands out in white relief against the night, a geometrically defined ghost, and Jack raises an eyebrow when he sees one of the bedroom lights on, low but steadily glowing. _Oh, shit. That better not be…_

He hurries towards the front door, opening it just in time to hear, "…bet y'all had a hog-killin' time gallivanting around out there, huh? Shootin' the shit and Jack not payin' no mind to his work? Now I ain't meanin' to be rude, friend, but this sure is—"

Jack interrupts, throwing his words like stones, "L.D., you got somethin' to say to me, you come over here an' say it, huh?"

L.D. looks at Jack, eyes narrowing. Ennis has frozen up, shoulders locked, taut as an over-strung wire. "I was just wonderin' when it was you became boss 'round here, Rodeo, 'cause last time I checked it was me. And I ain't given you no permission to run off'n fish for a week."

Jack places a hand lightly on Ennis's shoulder; his muscles bunch at first, but slowly they give way. "Everythin' was taken care of, L.D. I bet you ain't had no troubles since I left, now have you?" He squeezes Ennis's shoulder, and taking the unspoken cue, Ennis leaves, jerkily walking the direction of the guestroom, which begs the question for Jack,_ How much attention was he paying before, anyway?_ He tucks this thought away for another time.

"That's besides the point, buck-o. You done up and left, an' I need to know that I can rely on my employees. You go ahead and tell me why I shouldn't find myself another combine salesman, huh?"

'_Cause you know you ain't goin' a fire me and you're just here because you love to waste my time, you tight-assed blood-sucking sonofabitch._ "Look, L.D., this was an emergency situation here. I ain't never done nothin' like this before, and I ain't never goin' a do nothing like it again, awright? My friend in there, he's going through a tough time and I aim to help him out as best I can." _Not that you'd understand that, seein' as you seem to think friends is only around to call up when you want someone to complain to 'bout your deadbeat son-in-law._

"Now, listen, I ain't sayin' that…"

* * *

You turn around and walk away, no longer interested in hearing what they have to say. Why were you listening in the first place? You're not really sure. You're not sure of too many things nowadays. It's strange, because you think you remember when things weren't like this, but you'd be hard pressed to conjure up the specifics. You stare out the window, breath condensing on and off the chilled glass, manifest proof that you're still alive. There is one thing that you know for sure: you _deserve_ to be dead. You keep coming within inches of it, so close you can feel it touching your skin, but each time it slips away. The car swerves just in time, the door opens when you would pick up the knife. It isn't there with you all the time, this urge, but when you remember, when the pain of it pushes your guts into your throat, you need to find an escape. 

You aren't worth the effort Jack has wasted on you. You know it, he probably knows it. Then why is it that half the time you see him you want to hit him and the other half you want to fuck him silly?

_If it weren't for him…_

_Maybe…_

_But he said…_

You punch the wall, knuckles slamming into the pebbled wall paper, willing yourself not to believe. Because if he's wrong…

_But… he said…_

You only have small snippets from those nights, the nights where you could almost feel your sanity bleeding out of your ears, but they were real. They were real. It was all real, and nothing you can do, or he can do, will change it.

_But… he said… it was just a dream._

_No, no, NO._

Your mouth opens, a silent plea, but nothing comes out.

* * *

Jack flops into bed, jelly-limbed, not even bothering to remove his clothes, glad that Lureen is a heavy sleeper. She lies, hand resting on her right arm, mouth hanging slightly open, hair running amok around her face; she's so relaxed, all the tight, hard lines he's used to seeing around her mouth smoothed out. The blue coverlet (one of the few things in here that was Jack's choice) is all rumpled up at her feet like she's a child. He touches her cheek softly, remembering how he used to wake up sometimes to find her staring at him, a little smile playing on her lips. He always asked what she was thinking, and she'd never deigned to answer him, throwing pillows in his face or kissing him instead. Soon he would forget that he had a question in the first place. 

It made him a little to sad to think that now he might never know the answer; he can't remember the last time he opened his eyes to see that. Lately, she's been reminding him more and more of her father, asking him questions about what kind of ambitions he has for the family business and what his "plan of action" is. He doesn't know what those are, but from the sound of it, he thinks he ought to stay as far away from them as possible. Like as not those words came straight from L.D.'s mouth. Scowling, he realizes he's still bridling at L.D.'s assault; it isn't fair of him to blame Lureen for her misfortune of being born into the Newsome family.

He tries not to think about Ennis, probably lying in bed, asleep. _Wish I could be asleep._ He briefly debates the pros and cons of sneaking into the guest room; the cons and his laziness keep him rooted. _Hope Ennis isn't mad at me for what happened. Well, more mad._

_Not that Ennis had a real hard time leavin' me there or nothin'. _He sits up, shucking off his jacket and shaking his head at himself. _You told him to go, dummy, give the poor bastard a break._

He lies back, trying to get comfortable under the covers, too tired to change into his color-coordinated pajamas. _Well, ain't that all I been doin'? Givin' him a break? And where has it gotten me? He don't even remember givin' me this shiner, he certainly didn't say so much as 'sorry' when I told him where it come from, and you can bet I'm goin' a have to keep pussyfootin' around my family because I don't have no explanation for what he's doin'. An' how much you want a bet that if I was the one comin' to him, he'd just kick me right out on my ass and wish me good luck?_

Punching his pillow, he grumbles. Sleep does not come for a long time, and when it does, it tastes bitter in his mouth.


	7. Part VII: The Dinner

**Part VII: The Dinner**

"Pass me the sweet potatoes, Rodeo," L.D. says, mouth already full of them, garishly orange. Jack sends up a prayer of thanks for the umpteenth time that Lureen didn't learn her table manners from her father.

"Here y'are." Jack can see L.D. eyeing Ennis like a vulture circling in for the kill. _Ask 'im something quick, Twist._ "So, how's it going with the new hire… uhh, Nero's his name?" _Of course you know his name, you stupid fuck. Then again… you probably know the shape of his ass better._ He grimaces, mentally kicking himself. He stares intently at his food.

"He's been workin' out real well. First I didn't trust 'im, bein' a Negro an' all—I swear Dave wouldn't get off a my ass 'till I gave 'im a chance—but he's been doin' some real sweet-talkin'. He booked us four shows that I been tryin' to get for years, boy's got a way with those managers."

"Any new shows this month I should know about?"

"Yeah, you're going to one next week with 'im. Didn't I tell ya?"

_You sure as fuck did not. _"You might a mentioned it. One day or two?"

"Well, y'all is going one day for certain, and you'll have to decide between yourselves if'n it's worth staying for the second one, 'cause they got a spot open but I ain't sure if it's worth the money. Likely as not we won't get any profit on it this year, bein' our first." L.D., enamored with the sound of his own voice, turns to Ennis before Jack can respond. "Well, 'nough shop-talk, boy, we got ourselves a guest here and I do reckon we ought a make nice. Where you from, again, Mr. Delmer?"

Jack is trying to swallow the pork that seems to have lodged in throat when Laura puts a gentle hand on her husband's shoulder, "It's del Mar, honey. Del Mar." She smiles and retreats into silence once more.

"Aw, hell, del Mar then. That still don't answer my question."

Ennis hasn't even looked up from his uneaten food. Jack answers quickly, "He's from Riverton, Wyoming. We met in '63 herdin' sheep in Signal. Job paid shit, but I got myself a fishin' buddy out a it." Jack attempts a weak smile, telling himself over and over again that he's not allowed to crawl under the table dinner in front of company.

"I bet you catch all the fish, huh Ennis? I know Jack here cain't fish for beans."

Ennis glances up briefly, shrugs, and continues to roll his peas around.

"Cat got your tongue? Well I can see you made yourself right at home here. What kind a work you do?"

Pause. "He's a ranch foreman for a place near Riverton."

"Didn't get too far after herdin' those sheep, eh?"

Longer pause. "He's got hisself a real nice spread down 'n Riverton." Jack lies like he's defending his own honor—and maybe he is.

L.D. glances at Jack, scowling. "What about family? You want to tell me all about his family, too, Jack? Now what in th'hell is goin' on here? Man can't speak for hisself? I'm tryin' a make polite conversation with you here, Mr. Delmer, but I must rightly say you ain't tryin' too hard to make it back."

Ennis finally puts his fork down, his face an unhealthy pallor. "I'm sorry." Those two words contain such regret and plaintive vulnerability that even L.D. blinks at them. "Thank you kindly for the meal, ma'am." Ennis gets out his chair sedately, but practically runs out of the room.

The room is pregnant with silence, growing heavier by the moment. Jack stares after Ennis, but caution stays him. He thinks he might understand, in this moment, how Ennis has felt all these years.

Bobby looks around the table at all of them, as if willing them to speak. Getting no response, he chimes in, tentative, "Daddy… was the sheep real stinky? I bet your mama gave you a real good warshin' when you got home, huh?" Jack gives a good hard belly laugh, and the tension drains out of the air, like a balloon bursting under the strain of its own inflation.

"You bet your drawers she did, son. I could a fed a whole pond a frogs with all the flies I brought in with me. You learn from your old man and don't get into herdin' work."

"You best be learnin' from your pa, Bobby, 'cause the company's goin' a be all yours someday."

The conversation turns to more pleasant, neutral topics—L.D.'s firm endorsement of Gerald Ford and his outrage that anyone would try to assassinate him, Lureen's new hairstylist who's missing an ear but still gets all the men in town, Bobby's teacher who is always looking for her glasses when they're on top of her head, but refuses to believe the children when they tell her. Dinner passes uneventfully until they're stuffed to the brim with Lureen's famous peach cobbler, and L.D. invites (in a if-you-say-no-you'll-regret it sort of way) Jack have a nightcap out on the porch with him. Bobby returns to his room, complaining about his homework until he's well out of hearing range.

Lureen and Laura clean up after the meal, mopping up the mess Bobby made all over the table and stowing the leftovers in the fridge.

"Honey, you doin' all right?" Laura puts a hand on her shoulder, concerned. "Whatever is goin' on here… well, it ain't right."

Lureen takes a deep breath, nodding. "I really don't know what I'm a do, mama. This whole thing is so strange. Now, I know how to host myself a guest—learned from the best," Laura smiles, "but this Ennis fella acts like he'd rather be anywhere but here. What'm I s'posed to do about it? The worst part is, I think Jack is just as confused as the rest of us. If he can't figure out what to do about his friend, I don't know I'm 'spected to." She soaps the dishes, shaking her head.

"I think you're doin' fine job, dear. No one would judge you unfair, 'specially after the way he just came in here, middle a the night, fists flyin'. I probably would a kicked 'im right out a the house, friend or no friend. You're already a bigger woman than many of us would be. I don't remind him a this enough, but Jack is real lucky to have you."

"Thanks, mama. Jack's been actin' like I ought a be some kind a saint about all this—he actually asked me if I could un-invite y'all to dinner!—but you know I never pay him no mind." They share a laugh, and Laura puts the dried dishes away in the cabinet.

"How long you reckon this fella's goin' a be here?"

"I wish I knew. Jack just beats the devil around the stump ever' time I ask."

"I was thinkin' of talkin' to some of L.D.'s friends, seein' if one a them might have a job for Ennis." Laura watches Lureen carefully, a question-worry gnawing at her brow, "I got a tell you Lureen. I have this feelin' that now that he's here… he ain't goin' a leave."

Lureen can't look at her mother, face flushing slightly. Years of sideways glances, shirts torn mysteriously at the seam, and forgotten anniversaries weigh on her.

Laura continues, voice soft but sure. "We best be gettin' him settled in. I'm a call you as soon as it's set up."

Lureen hugs her mother, grateful tears in her eyes. There are just some things that even a woman grown cannot do alone.


	8. Part VIII: Dozy

**Part VIII: Dozy**

Jack unbuttons his shirt, the dark blue one he always wears for company. The nightcap he had with L.D. (which turned into four servings of scotch) starts to warm him, makes him feel a little better about everything. He loves the feeling, craves it sometimes; a couple of times he's even gone into work slightly buzzed, but never bad enough to get caught.

He always wants a drink now that Ennis is around.

Discarding his bolo tie on one of the maroon chairs that screams of a woman's touch, he runs his hand through his hair, pulls up his pants a bit, and knocks a gentle _rap rap_ on the guest room door. A few moments pass, no movement, and Jack turns to leave just as the door cracks open. Ennis swings it wide when he sees who it is and walks, feet full of lead, back to the bed. From all appearances, he has been lying there all day and night—sheets rumpled, pillows shaped to the contours of his head.

Jack wants to shake him, rattle him so hard that the words of confession fall out, strewn about the floor for Jack to peruse at his leisure. He wants to shake him until he promises that he'll never do this kind of thing to Jack again, that he'll stay this time, and as long as they're together everything will be okay.

But he has learned over the years that his silence is just as important as Ennis's.

So he closes the door, turning the lock with a swift _snick_, and sits on the bed, resisting the urge to neaten it. Too many years of Lureen pestering him to make the bed, make the bed. He places his hand on Ennis's back, fabric cool against his liquor-warmed blood, and moves his hand in lazy, directionless circles. Sensing no resistance, he shifts, and begins to knead the tight-knit shoulders, knuckles digging into the points of tension, working his thumb hard into the ropy bunches of muscle. Ennis leans into it, sounds of relief humming under his breath, and the coiled lines in his face loosen.

He removes the shirt without a murmur of protest from Ennis, following suit with his own, and sits back against the headboard, motioning for Ennis to sit between his splayed legs. A flicker of hesitance plays across his face, but he moves in, lying back onto Jack's chest. Within seconds, their breathing moves in time, in matching in and out matching out; Jack's fingers move with confidence, every drop of strain that leaches from the aching muscles a small triumph. They communicate with the rasp of a fingernail on a scalp, vibrations of pleasure, of wanting, the whisper-promise of skin against skin, a nose investigating an ear, a tongue leaving a crackling trail of statement on a neck, palm on knee, elbow cradled in elbow, fingers woven together, unbreakable.

In this place, for them, time does not exist. It trickles by, unhurried, and the pressures of every day living drop away; expectations and restrictions and disappointments become so much meaningless jargon. They sink into an embrace that demands nothing, ticking by the seconds in the flow of blood through veins, the passage of two rhythms beating counterpoint; an embrace that asks only for the unspoken words of a heart's truth. Feather-light, they drowse, Jack's arms around Ennis, not in confinement, but release; and they slip into a sleep that soothes, calms—holds them as a mother would her child, secure against the world.

It is what it is, and they are what they are—nothing more, nothing less.

As the moon rises higher and the clock chimes three, Jack blinks, smiling to see Ennis still fast asleep. He knows he should be worried about making excuses to Lureen about coming to bed so late, or figuring out how to stop L.D. from harassing Ennis, but all he can do is grin from ear to ear with the fact that he is _here_. Ennis came to him; he trusts him. Anything else now is just icing on the cake.

Ennis, probably sensing Jack's train of thought, opens his eyes, the shade of hazelnut in the moonlight—his expression, for once, is clear and pain-free. "'ey, cowboy," he slurs, mouth clogged with sleep.

"Hey, yourself."

Jack trails one finger over the stubble-covered cheeks, tracing the beautiful angularity, overwhelmed by this peace, by his lover's presence—he is so intoxicated with relief and hope that he can't pretend any more, he can't be something he is not. He hears words leave his mouth before he can stop them,

"Ennis, whatever happened… you know I still love you."

He knows, _knows_ it was the wrong thing to say. He almost slapps his hand over his mouth, but after a second's consideration, his fists clench, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. It was the God's honest truth and he's not going to apologize for it, whether Ennis likes it or not.

He does not.

His face stiffens as he digests the words, and before Jack can blink, he is facing away, hunched in defense. "You don't know _nothin'_ about it." His voice filters through a screen of hostility, distorted, coming in from a million miles away.

And Jack wants it back so badly he can almost taste it, he wants to ask Ennis if they can just please rewind five seconds, _you know you can't take a damn thing I say seriously, Ennis_, but instead he's yelling so loud he can barely understand himself, cracking down the middle and exposing everything he's tried to keep hidden, "That's 'cause you won't TELL me nothin', you sonofabitch! Who the fuck you think y'are, anyway, huh? Comin' here, disruptin' _my _life, and then tellin' me that _I _don't know nothin' about it. I see how it is. You just get to call all the fuckin' shots, don'tcha?"

Ennis's face twists, and the words fight their way past his throat, barely escaping, "I don't deserve this, Jack."

"Well, whyn't you go ahead'n call this shot, Ennis. Looks like your sorry ass don't need me around, so I'll be in New Mexico for the next two days and you can just figure out what in th'fuck you want to do. I'll leave you be just like you always fuckin' wanted." It's all he can do not to shake the whole house when he slams the door; it's all he can do not collapse in a heap on the floor, broken by the enormity of his rejection.

He'll have to ask L.D. if there's a conference he can attend.

Jack leaves early in the morning, when the sun is still flirting with the mountaintops, teasing the darkness away. He drives with the determination of a man running from a situation he cannot face or change and with the familiarity of a man who has tried innumerable times to go after what he wants. His car hurtles down the freeway, a statement of fact: _I had to leave._

_I _had _to._

He's not convinced, but he's already committed. His memory did serve him correctly—there is a conference going on in New Mexico that he had told L.D. he couldn't attend once Ennis arrived. It was a little bit of trouble to re-book, but with a little fast-talking on the phone he worked everything out. He'll be staying in a pretty cheap motel, but it's not like he's never done that before.

He tries not to think about it.

"Mr. Twist, would y'like some'a my coffee? Looks like you forgot yours." Nero holds out the thermos, smiling a little bit too big and too friendly for this early in the morning.

"Thanks, Nero. Don't mind if'n I do." He holds out his right hand, one eye on the road, and Nero hands it off to him—their fingers are in contact for a fraction of a second too long. Jack drinks the coffee carefully, hands trembling a warning.

_Shit_.

_

* * *

It happened again, just like so many times before. You can't count all the times on two hands; your life has been built on miscommunications. The words got mangled on the way out, and what you actually meant to say didn't enter into the conversation at all._

_You wanted to tell him you don't deserve his love. You wanted to tell him you don't deserve him._

_You wanted to tell him he has every right to kick you out. That he should._

_You think about where you would go. Can't go back there, can never go back there—and you begin to remember. You push your fists into your eyes, refusing the truth of it, refusing to let it happen again. It plays like an endless reel in your mind, a constant companion underneath the surface thoughts. The tinny sound of the woman's voice, ringing words into your ears that burned like acid; the sickening realization that it was all your fault, all your fault._

_It was all your fault._

_The sounds and images blur, too much, too much, can't take the pain, can't take it, it burns, burrowing deeper and deeper inside. It writhes inside you, a monster of your own making, and you have to kill it, kill this thing growing inside you._

_You deserve to die._

_And, looking up, you remember the razor in the bathroom._


	9. Part IX: Temptation

When Jack has to answer the same dumb question for the twentieth time, he remembers why it is that he hates shows and does everything in his power to avoid them. _Damn Ennis. He always gets me so damn riled up._ The man who's been occupying the past twenty minutes of Jack's time finally nods, satisfied at the answer, and declines to make the purchase. Jack smiles politely, imagining his hands squeezing around the man's chubby neck, tells him to have a good day. He stretches his neck from side to side, satisfied by the matching crackle-pop sounds that come out, and checking his watch, he sees that it's just about time to call it a day. He heads to the men's room for one last piss before he leaves this overheated, overcrowded bunch of L.D. clones, assaulted by the sharp stench of ammonia when he pushes through the faded green door. The little blue man identifying the room is missing one of his legs—Jack wonders if he would have ended up like that if he'd stayed in rodeo.

Might have been worth it, though.

Letting the might-have-beens fade into the background where they usually stay, he unzips and sighs with relief. _Shoulda just pissed on the fucker when he asked if I was even old enough to drive one a these tractors. Not like he's God gift t'machinery or nothin'._

"Heya, boss. We ready t'git goin'?" Nero's voice rumbles behind Jack and he stops peeing out of surprise.

"Uh, yeah… I'm ready t'go. Soon as I'm done… here." He readjusts, trying find his comfort zone again, but Nero situates at the urinal directly to his right.

"Wanna get a beer or sumpin' 'fore we head back to the motel? I could use one, don't know 'bout you."

Jack swallows hard, zipping up. No use trying to finish up now. "Sure, why not." _Why not? I can give you about a hunerd reasons why not, you stupid dumbfuck…Though I guess it'll gimme a chance to come up with some reason why we oughtn't share a room tonight._

As they walk out to the truck, Jack looks askance at Nero, unsure how the evening will go. _So what do I say? Sure as hell'll seem strange t'ask for separate rooms, 'cause it'll cost more money and I always stay with the other guys when I'm on the road. Though none a them was quite so… _

Jack doesn't even know how to describe it. Nero is strong-built, moving with lithe confidence, the strength of his presence impossible to ignore, exuded in every movement, yet somehow understated, contained, heat boiling below the surface. Burnished mahogany skin, backlit in the setting sun, draws Jack's eyes up his neck and along his jaw, the rough mat of dark stubble a contrast to his smooth-shaven head. Nero wears the mantle of his masculinity close-fitting, but with no discomfort. _Shit, this guy could beat me flat in under a second. Those arms must be the size a my legs. And why is that so fuckin'… hot?_

Not to mention that his mustache, thick and perfectly groomed, makes Jack's pale imitation cringe in embarrassment. He considers shaving it off back at the motel, a change of pace, maybe, but also a little "fuck you" to Ennis. He remembers when Ennis saw it for the first time—he raised his eyebrow, gave a quirked side-smile, and tackled Jack to the ground, growling something unintelligible but wholly sexual. Jack opens the car door, lump closing up his throat. _Yup, definitely need some beers. Maybe some whiskey, even._

The bar they end up at is populated with washed-out locals and few other guys from the show. They grab their beers at the bar, which is full, so they sit at a table in the corner, round and so small that their knees almost knock. Jack downs his first mug so quickly that's he up again before he's even had a chance to get comfortable. He purchases a pitcher; it takes up most of the small table but he'll probably need the whole thing, if not two.

Years of polite chit-chat etiquette kicking in, he asks, "You from around here, Nero?" He's noticed the "ah" instead of "I" and the relaxed consonants, the slow cadence of his speech.

"Naw, I'm from Alabama, roundabouts Auburn. I sound nahmal there, but 'round here I stick out like a needle in a haystack."

"Not so bad, I was just curious. Ain't got no other Alabamans on the crew, don't think."

"Nope, just me. Don't hardly go back no more, though, gotta save up all mah money."

"Family back there?"

"Yeah, I'm tryin' a suppoht 'em. My ma cain't walk no more, so my sistah takes care a her mostly, and I send 'em all I can." He tries to smile a little, but the homesickness is a feeling Jack can recognize from a mile away.

"My folks is up in Wyomin', don't get to see 'em as much as I'd like, neither. Can be hard, all that distance. What kinda job was you at before this?"

"Oh, just jumped around…"

They chat amiably for the next couple hours, Jack unwinding in direct proportion to his alcohol consumption. He does his best not to notice Nero's five-hundred watt smile, lighting up his face with every dumb joke Jack makes, or the fact that their knees are definitely touching under the table. Nothing wrong with being friendly, he keeps telling himself. Lighting up his sixth cigarette of the evening, his lighter dies, flames sputtering down just after charring the tip.

"Y'gotta light, Nero? I swear t'God, nobody cain't make _nothin'_ a quality anymore, piece a shit lighter…" Jack's words slur slightly and he throws the lighter in question down on the table.

"No problem, boss." Nero pulls a pack of matches out of his shirt pocket, pulling out a single match and leaning over, he strikes it against the side of his boot in one smooth motion, igniting on the first try. Straightening up, he holds the flickering flame out for Jack, right hand cupped to keep it from being extinguished. Jack takes a drag off the cigarette and promptly swallows more beer, cotton-mouthed. Damned if that isn't the sexiest thing he's seen in a long time.

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

"_How 'bout ice cream, then?"_

"_Sorry, honey, we got a lot to do today. Don't have time for ice cream right now."_

"_But you promised!" She stamped her foot, unwilling to sacrifice such a treat as ice cream so easily._

"_I'm sorry… I shouldn't a said that. Wasn't nice a me. But we really cain't get any ice cream today."_

_Her older sister rolled her eyes. "We can just get ice cream tomorrow." She was proud that she didn't need to whine about ice cream, even though she wanted it, too._

"_Ain't fair, mamma. When I make promises you always make me keep 'em." Her lower lip protruded stubbornly._

"_Alright! Alright. We'll try to get some ice cream today, but that's the best I can do."_

_She claps her hands in excitement. "Thanks, mamma! I can eat it in the car, don't worry. I'll be real careful. And we can bring Duke along to lick up the mess."_

_Her mother laughs. "Don't go pushin' your luck, little lady. Now go get dressed so we can get goin', alright?"_

_

* * *

_  
Bobby drops the book down on the bed, frustrated. _Don't make any sense, how'm I s'posed to read it?_ He puts his pencil, peppered with bite marks, inside as a bookmark and rolls up to a sitting position. He looks around the room, evaluating what he can do quietly if Lureen comes home early she won't hear that he isn't doing his homework. He doesn't come up with much, and decides to head outside instead, see if what Paul told him about burning ants with a magnifying glass is true. He can tell mamma he's doing a science project if she asks.

He's on his way to Jack's office when he hears the sound. It's low, and he can't make out what it is, but it's coming from the direction of the guest room. _That Ennis fella is still here? I thought he went to New Mexico with daddy._ His eyes widen as he realizes what this means, and he looks around the hallway furtively, sure that someone will stop him as he stealthily approaches the guest room door. _Daddy won't mind that much. I'm real friendly, I know my manners. I don't see what the big fuss is, anyway._ He stops in front of the door, pressing his ear against the wood to see if he can figure out what Ennis is up to in there. _Wonder if he's talkin' to someone else? But he don't hardly talk, and who would he be talkin' to anyway? Maybe he's just got the TV on real loud._ Bobby decides to knock, quietly rapping at first, and then a little louder when he doesn't get an answer.

After a few minutes he gets a strange feeling in his stomach and scrunches up his face in confusion. _Wouldn't he just say "go away" is he's real busy? Why ain't he answerin' the door?_ After another few minutes, ignoring everything his mother ever taught him about manners, he closes his eyes up tight and turns the doorknob.


	10. Part X: Intersections

**Part X: Intersections**

"We're here, time t'wake up."

"Whaaa…?" Jack opens one eye, squinting. "I thought we was drinkin'."

Nero pats him on the shoulder, "That was 'bout an hour ago, boss-man. I'ma get us a room, now, be raiht back."

Jack rubs his eyes, groggy-drunk, and looks outside, taking inventory. They're at the Shady Lane Inn, just like he'd planned for. He never did get a chance to explain to Nero that the reservation was for two different rooms, but now the clerk would do the job for him. _It was the right choice, Twist. Don't let the beer make you think otherwise._ Shaking his head a little, thoughts flowing slowly like water thick with sediment, he pulls the keys out of the ignition and gets out of the car to grab his bag from the trunk.

"Got the key, here's ya copy."

Jack nearly jumps out of his skin at Nero's approach, "Boy, I'ma have t'put a fuckin' bell on you or somethin', my heart cain't take all this strain."

Nero smiles, "Ain't the first one to tell me so, doubt you be the last. Let's jes' say that ya learn to walk real quiet in a house full a six brothahs who beat on ya reg'lar like."

"Well, no need t'sneak 'round me, don't got no aims on beatin' you." He looks at the key in his hand, examining it slowly and then looking at the one in Nero's hand. "We got the same key?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, they tol' me at the desk that we got separate rooms, but I thought it were a mistake. An' I think that gettin' two rooms would go over the budget L.D. gave us, anyhow."

"…oh." Jack's mind was becoming more and more clear every second in the cool night air, much to his chagrin, but there was nothing he could say to that particular brand of monetary logic.

"Should I go 'n get another room? I'm sorry, I weren't tryin' a mess up ya plans or nothin'…"

"No, no problem at all. I was just tryin' a get us some halfway decent rooms, but sure 'nough L.D. had other plans. I don't snore or nothin' and I can sleep through a freight train so it'll be okay."

"If ya sure…"

Jack nods, grabbing the bags out of the trunk and closing up the car. The "inn" is hardly a step above a motel, covered in grey paint that may have once been white, metal handrails flimsy and shaking under their hands as they go up the concrete stairs. Jack prefers this to the sticky heat, the strains of foreign guitar chords in the air and the melodious language that rolls in his ears like accusations. He resists the pull of that place, the temptation to sink into the anonymity and never emerge; at least here, he is accountable, and in a strange way, he belongs.

At least that's what he keeps telling himself.

He opens the door, tosses his things onto the bed and heads for the bathroom. A cold shower will help him in more than one way. He locks the door, checking it twice, and turns on the water full blast, discarding his clothes as quickly as he can get them off. He knows the more he thinks about it the worse it will be; as soon as he has his socks off, he's in, "Hoo, doggie," muscles spasming when the water hits them, skin pulling taut. He soaps up quickly, rubbing the goose pimples that are sprinkled across his arms to get his circulation going until he adjusts to the temperature.

After a few minutes, without thinking, his hand moves over his cock, white with suds, gripping tight and stroking up and down in long, smooth strokes. He pictures Ennis on their last trip, smiling that you'll-never-know-what-I'm-thinking smile, callused fingertips sliding along Jack's hips and pulling him closer by the belt loops of his jeans, _You needin' it, cowboy? Need it bad?_, and Jack comes into his hand, his body answering the question his mind tried to forget: _Yes, Ennis, I need you._

The question is, do you need me?

Jack rinses off; the shower has sobered him up, as he was hoping, but it did nothing to ease the ache that is now his constant companion. Shivering violently, he towels off and gets dressed, not bothering with the pleasantries of shaving or brushing his hair. He pauses before returning to the bedroom. _If I'm lucky he'll be asleep. _He opens the door to see Nero reclining on his bed, perusing a catalogue, casual as can be. _Never was one to trust nothin' to luck, guess there weren't no reason for me to start now._

He sits on the bed, facing the opposite wall. He takes off his watch and rings and puts them on the nightstand, and then rubs his neck, stretching it from side to side until he hears the popping sound he's looking for. He winces as he squeezes the muscles, knotted and gnarled, an old rodeo injury that never quite healed right. He jumps about a mile high when he feels Nero's hand on his shoulder, "Whoa there! Didn't mean t'scare ya again. I was jes' wonderin' if you was feelin' alright after all that beer we had. Ya looked a mite unsettled in the car."

Jack tries, tries so hard not to look up, but his neck moves of its own accord, everything he wants blazing across his face, Nero's eyes hot and half-lidded, riveted on him, and when Jack licks his lips, he makes a low growling sound and kisses Jack, fingers tangling in his hair. Nero presses against him and they fall onto the bed, breath fevered and hands grappling. Jack feels himself drowning in hot want, hears the blood roaring in his ears, and he can almost forget the twinge of pain that stirs in his gut—

"God, I've wanted you t'fuck me since th'second I saw ya."

The spell is broken with Nero's words whispered in husky desperation; he senses the shift in mood, pulls back and looks questioningly at Jack. Jack moves away, sitting against the heardboard, breaking eye contact. "I'm… I'm sorry. I… cain't." _Even if he doesn't need me, I'm still goin' a be there. Cain't be no other way between us._

Nero shifts, sitting beside Jack. He is silent for a moment, adjusting some buttons that came loose, and asks quietly, "He's got ya that bad, hmm?"

Jack looks at him, mouth hanging open. "I…" He shuts it, at a loss for words.

Nero nods. "Ya seem like a good guy, Jack, which is why I'ma tell ya this." He unbuttons the shirt he was fixing seconds ago, slipping it off his back. Jack inhales sharply when he sees the fine network of scars, white with age, tracing a story of abuse across Nero's skin.

"Who in th'hell…?"

"T'ain't a story fit for sharin'. But… there's a lotta reasons I don't go back to Alabama no more… this is one a them."

Nero pulls his shirt back on, facing Jack once more. "You seem like a real loyal fella, and that's us'lly a good thing. But I can tell ya that sometimes… it don't always pay off to be loyal. Jes' be careful 'bout what ya gettin' yerself into. Hate t'see ya get hurt."

He stands, grabbing his things, "I'ma get mahself another room now. I'll see ya in the mornin', Jack."

Bobby tentatively opens his eyes, feeling more confident because he can hear now that Ennis is laughing. He scrunches his face up at the scene before him: Ennis is on the bed, head leaned back, laughing—but not a happy kind of laugh, and the tears streaming down his face belie the sound.

"Shit!" Bobby exclaims, and quickly puts his hand over his mouth, so shocked at the sight of blood on Ennis's arms that he forgets himself. Ennis stops laughing abruptly and looks at Bobby, confused.

His voice is raw. "What're you doin' here?"

Bobby, knees bent and arms raised as if he's going to bolt any second says, "Uhh… I just came in here to get a magnifyin' glass, Mr. Ennis sir."

This does nothing to clear up Ennis's confusion, and he almost wants to laugh at the deer-in-the-headlights expression on Bobby's face, but then he looks down and sees his blood everywhere. His fatherly instincts kick in and he grabs the razor off the bed and bolts to the bathroom, saying to Bobby as he washes his hands, "You want a sit down? I'll be right out." Time for some damage control.

The cuts on his wrists, shallow but bloody, continue to leak red, and he takes two of the pristine white towels off the rack and ties them clumsily around his arms. He can take care of it later. Wiping off his tear-streaked face, he goes back into the bedroom, feeling sick at the sight of Bobby poised in a chair, practically humming with discomfort.

"How you doin', Bobby?" Ennis asks gently, sitting on the bed once more, facing him. "I… uh. I didn't mean a scare you, I, uh, had myself a accident while I was shaving."

"You okay now?" Bobby said in a small voice, eyes on the towels.

"Yeah, yeah, 'm fine."

There is an awkward silence. Bobby shifts in his chair, glancing at the door. _Should a listened to mamma and minded my manners._

Ennis's gut twists with guilt. He takes a deep breath, and approaches the chair, crouching next to Bobby. "So what were you goin' a do with the magnifyin' glass, 'xactly? Goin' a kill yourself some ants?"

"Yeah! How did you know?" Bobby leans forward, eminently more comfortable with this topic.

"Well, I must say that I was quite the ant killer in my day. Must a fried a least a zillion a the little buggers, maybe even two."

"Wow, can you show me? I thought Paul was lyin' a me, but if you done it, it must be true."

Ennis smiles.

"You bet."


	11. Part XI: Recovering

Jack is on his way to grab a turkey sandwich when he hears Ennis's. _Now who's he talkin' to?_ He feels a flare of irritation at the instant jealously that churns in him. He hasn't seen him since he got back late last night, and he was busy all morning trying to get L.D. off his ass about the conference. He walks slowly in Ennis's direction, beginning to decipher the words, and peeks at him talking from the side of his eyes, leaning against the hallway wall. _So he's on the phone then? Hmm, never figured him to be big on that._

"…sorry. Know I should a called earlier…yeah, I'll be there. I know." Ennis pauses, listening. "Well, I'll see you soon." He nods against the receiver as if the other person can see him, and Jack smiles.

"Cain't talk 'bout that right now…no…" Ennis's voice wavers, heavy with emotion, and Jack immediately feels guilty for intruding on this private moment. He props himself off the wall and starts to head back to the kitchen.

"I gotta know… are they lookin'—" Ennis stops abruptly.

_Uh oh_. He turns, sheepishly, and sees Ennis staring at him. Ennis mumbles something into the phone and quickly hangs it up, raising his eyebrow at Jack.

"I… umm… well Lureen said Bobby wanted to go on a picnic today? Was wonderin' if y'wanted to come 'long?" _Nice save, jerkoff._

Ennis shrugs. "Sure."

"Good, I'll go'n tell Bobby." Jack practically runs off, glad for the excuse. _Geeze, who you think you are, spyin' on 'im? Ain't his mamma, don't got no right_.

…'_s not like y'found out anythin' interestin', anyway._

_

* * *

You pull the shirt over your head, still finding it strange to wear Jack's things. The words she said are still jangling around in your head. Another week. You feel bad that you lied to her. You want to be there, you really do._

_But it would be the ultimate disrespect._

_Why couldn't you just tell her? You have nothing to hide anymore. She must know—everyone must know by now. You're not really sure why you called. Brushing the bandages on your wrists with your thumb, you almost have to laugh at the bitter irony of it all. You can't even die right. Guess you should have figured it wouldn't be anything like the movies, nothing ever was. Shaking your head, you grab your hat, smiling when you remember how Bobby made you promise not to tell Jack that he'd come into your room without permission._

_But you were glad to help him conduct his "science experiment." It hurt, but in a good way, a way that made you feel human instead of a like a monster. He doesn't give you the doe-eyed look that Jack does, those eyes begging for a respite, begging for an explanation. It's easy to be with him. You can almost forget, here. You can see now that Jack has built himself a real good life here._

_You just wish you could stay._

_

* * *

_  
"Hey, Nero, hard at work?" Laura Newsome asks, poking her head into the office.

Nero looks up from the filing cabinet and gives her a two-hundred watt smile. "Always, Missus N. What can I do for ya, ma'am?" He closes the filing cabinet quickly, leaning against the desk.

She enters the office, very prim and proper in her twin sweater set and white dress smattered with red floral print. "I was hopin' you might be able to do me a favor, my dear boy. You know that man, uh, Jack's friend? Ennis?" Nero nods. "Well, Lureen 'n I reckon it's about time he stopped moping around the house. He's disturbing her peace somethin' unmerciful, y'know. I was thinkin' that maybe you could talk to Leecil for me and get the whole matter straightened out." Her expression was beseeching, and she twisted her purse handle around in her hands, obviously only sharing parts of the story.

Nero digested this, nodding slightly to himself, and offered up another blinding smile, "Anythin' for you, Missus N, ya know that. I'll go 'n see 'im raiht now."

She places her hand on his arm, relief heavy in her voice, "Thank you so much, dear. I would do it myself but Leecil hasn't listened to a word I've said since the day we got married." She laughs at her own joke, tells him to have a good day, and beelines out of the office, knowing L.D. will be suspicious if he sees her hanging around.

Nero leans against the desk, languid, in silent contemplation. Once he's formed his plan of attack, he cuts across the building to L.D.'s office, a place he generally likes to avoid but rarely can. Knocking lightly on the door, he enters when he hears a gruff "Whaddya want?" from inside. He enters, immediately tensing when he's inside. The opulence of the office always puts Nero on edge. Thick carpets, a garish shade between vomit and split pea soup, heavy and dark wood paneling, and a whole wall full of family portraits menacing anyone who dares to come into the room.

Though he does prefer the portraits to L.D.

"Hey there Nero, y'got those reports for me?" he asks, throwing back the rest of his drink.

_Y'mean the one you told me about fifteen minutes ago? Sure, sure, let me just pull them out of mah "I'm a magic fucking file finder" ass._ "Still workin' on those. But I been thinkin' 'bout what you said before, wantin' some more help around the house, with the ranch 'n all."

"Y'got someone in mind? All these goddamned applicants—can't trust 'em any father 'n I can throw 'em. Don't never call back, or they if they do, they ask 'bought benefits and other shit like that."

"Maybe we could put that Ennis fella t'work?" Nero says, testing the waters.

"That guy!" L.D. slams his hand down on the desk, and half rises out of his seat with agitation, "Ain't had myself a fuckin' moment a peace sine he got here! I don't what that pissant Jack is thinkin', bringin' him in like he's running some kinda a goddamned boarding house or sumpin', but I don't 'preciate havin' that kind a influence 'round Bobby. Ain't right, a man sittin' around all day doin' nothin'." His chest is heaving, but he's run out of steam—and breath—for the moment.

"Ta'in't raight, to be sure. He'd make a good addition to the work crew at the ranch, mebbe."

L.D. thinks about this for a moment, "Jack didn't put you up t'this, did he? I wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction a sucking more money out a my pockets."

"'Course not, boss. I just figgered we could pay 'im low enough that he wouldn't even be an official employee or nuthin'. Could be like a tradin' sit-ua-tion, he's stayin' on the property and workin' for it, too. I think Jack mighta mentioned sumthin' 'bout gettin' him a job over at Roy Taylor's, act'lly."

"You make sure we get Ennis on our crew, Nero, don't want Taylor takin' any more able-bodied men, bastard already got half the population in Childress workin' for 'im."

L.D. sits back down, pours himself another drink. "Glad we got that settled. Go get me that report now."

Nero smiles. "Sure thang, boss."

* * *

"Daddy, when're you goin' a teach me t'fish like you 'n Ennis do? Mamma always says you guys must be pros at it by now, been doin' it so long." 

Jack, reclining back on the picnic blanket, flushes slightly, "I could take you next weekend, Bobby. Maybe you can even get Ennis t'tell you 'bout fly fishin'." He looks over at Ennis, eyes crinkling in amusement—and happy to see that the shadows, for now, have left Ennis's face.

"Oh, would you, Mr. Ennis? Paul would be _so_ jealous, then he could finally stop braggin' 'bout how he's always catchin' two-foot long trouts, not that I b'lieve 'im anyways." Bobby takes a heroic bite out of his sandwich, bulging to the brim with turkey and mayo, looking expectantly at Ennis, who chuckles.

"I'd be happy t'teach you, Bobby, but I don' think you'll be catchin' yourself no two-foot trouts just yet. Ain't never fished 'round here before, though, we might both have t'take lessons from your daddy here."

"I'll teach you 'bout shootin', Bobby, you'll get bored learnin' a fish."

"Shoot? Jack, I bet you tried to aim for your left foot you'd end up hittin' your right. Get Lureen t'teach 'im, she seems pretty handy with a gun."

"Mamma? A gun?" Bobby nearly chokes on his sandwich, "That's somethin' I don't ever wanna see, daddy!" They all share a good belly laugh over that, and the conversation continues through the afternoon, easy. After they finish their sandwiches they lie back in the sun, content to enjoy the afternoon. Jack is warmed by a combination of the lazy heat circulating in the meadow, the relief suffusing him every time he hears Ennis speak a word without undertones to it, a distinct sense that maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

This is just what he's always wanted.

As they're driving home, he understands, for the first time, what that means. _Even if Ennis cain't tell me what's goin' on yet, don't mean I don't want him here. Fact is, don't want him t'leave—didn't even want 'im t'leave when I was so mad I was 'bout to tear my hair out. _

_And when I tol' him 'bout that calf and cow operation, I was also tellin' him that I'd be around, good or bad. So this'll be the bad, I guess. But I can wait for the good._

"Penny for your thoughts, bud?" Ennis says, pushing Jack lightly on the shoulder.

"Huh?" he says, realizing that they've parked in front of the house and he didn't even notice. "Oh, guess we better get inside."

Ennis shrugs, looking out his window. Jack looks him up and down, reading the signs, "Or how 'bout a little hike? I could stand t'walk off all that potato salad, swear Lureen's always gettin' on my case 'bout losin' ten pounds."

As they walk the trail to the overlook, Jack hopes he wasn't misinterpreting Ennis's intentions, because his cock has already started bulging against his jeans, and not at a very comfortable angle, either. His patience is rewarded when Ennis tackles him against a tree, breath _whoosing_ out of him as he makes contact with the bark, and they tumble, kissing furiously and unbuckling various contraptions, deeper into the trees, off the path. Jack shucks off Ennis's shirt, sucking and biting his skin, starved for the taste of him, the tangy sweat and salt, and he bites the area just between his neck and shoulder, sucking softly, just short of leaving marks; he works his way down, running his tongue roughly over Ennis's nipples. He can feel Ennis trembling beneath his ministrations, nails digging into Jack's scalp, and he comes back up, needing to kiss Ennis.

He moves his hand into the curled roughage just below Ennis's beltline, twining it through his fingers before gripping the base of his cock, reveling in the sensation of velvet-coated steel. Ennis moans into his mouth, and moves his own hand into Jack's jeans, exposing his desire to the open air, "God, _Ennis_, so good," Jack says incoherently, clinching closer, and their hands are sliding, fast, and they press their cocks against one another, pulsing hot, thumbs gripping tight and working the sweet spot until they come together, crashing into each other like two trees, felled and only staying aloft because of the other.

Jack sighs softly, hearing the reassuring sound of Ennis's breath in his ear, feeling his heartbeat against his neck, and in this moment he is a happy man.


	12. Part XII: Revelations

**Part XII: Revelations**

One week later

_The other day almost felt normal, just fell into it, talking to Jack and Bobby like nothing happened._

Can't_ let yourself forget, not even for a second. Got to leave tomorrow. Have to go back—you deserve what's waiting for you. Only a coward would hide from it._

_Finally thinking clearly._

_Tonight. Tell him tonight. He won't want you here once you've told him, no painful goodbyes, no "See you later, Ennis" in his misery voice. No more meetings in the mountains, no more week-long getaways. No more of those smiles that warm like sunshine, no more helping Bobby with his "homework."_

_It's better to go. Sometimes he laughs, or mumurs your name when you're kissing, you want to hurt him. He's started, quietly, saying he loves you at unexpected times, casual-like, no big fuss. The words make you feel sick. You want to yell at him, pound into him, tell him it's all his fucking fault—if he'd just—if he hadn't—_

_But those are just excuses._

_Have to leave. No choice. What a real man would do. _

_One last dinner. One last night._

_

* * *

_

"If you're puttin' any more pepper into that soup we'll have smoke comin' out a ears by the time we finish a bowl!" Lureen called into the kitchen, shaking her head. "I can hear that grinder a yours goin', mamma, have a little mercy please."

Laura's head pops up above the bar. "Honey child, I been makin' this soup longer'n you been livin'. Don't be tryin' a tell me how t'make it, now." She shoots Lureen a meaningful look and pops back into the kitchen.

"Well I been cryin' ever' time I had to eat it since I could remember," Lureen mutters, laying out the linen napkins, but she smiles. As she's smoothing out the tablecloth, Bobby comes in, his blue tie around his head, down just above his eyebrows, hanging askew and knotted in a most interesting fashion.

"Do you know where Daddy is?" Bobby asks, frowning. Lureen suppresses a smile, coming forward and easing the tie off his head. "I think he said he was goin' out back t'grab somethin'. You could ask grandpa, too, y'know."

Bobby wrinkles his nose, "He always tells me only hooligans don't know how t'do ties right, and then he makes it so tight that I can't hardly eat." Lureen chuckles a little, turns Bobby in the direction of the yard, giving him a gentle push, "Go'n find Daddy, he'll fix ya right up."

At five-thirty their guests arrive: Sarah Whiteman, Laura's oldest friendly, recently widowed, Bert Favre, the only businessman in town that L.D. doesn't despise, and Yolanda and Ernesto Reynolds, friends of Lureen and Jack's from rodeo days. The meal is perfect for the warm night (discounting Laura's pepper-happy soup): chilled pasta, scalloped potatoes, glazed pork chops, and a taco salad sprinkled with frito chips, and towering whip-cream jello parfaits for dessert and lemon iced tea to wash it all down. L.D., Bert and Ernesto discuss business at one end of the table, much to Bobby's chagrin, and Sarah, Laura, Yolanda and Lureen trade recipes at the other end, much to Jack's. Ennis, seated in the middle, across from Bobby, hardly touches his food.

_Hope he's not too bored down there. Not that I'm farin' much better over here, m'self_. Jack has nothing to contribute on the topic of baking with or without aluminum foil, and when he tries to interject with, "Well, hell, it'll all get cooked in the end, right?" he gets two eyerolls and a scowl from Lureen. As the meal progresses, he notices Bobby trying to make conversation with Ennis, who looks more ill with each passing moment. Jack also sees L.D. glancing at him every now and again, and he grimly prepares to step in if necessary, but the meal finishes up without incident.

"Lureen, I think I've died an' gone t'heaven. This parfait is fabulous," Yolanda says, licking her spoon, brown eyes twinkling.

"You outdone yourself, honey, I'm fit t'burst and still wanna grab more." L.D. chimes in, patting his stomach.

"Thinkin' 'bout lickin' the plates, m'self," Jack says, eyeing the platter hungrily.

Lureen inclines her head, rising, her hand on Jack's shoulder. "Well, thank y'all kindly. Jack, don't go lickin' no plates, we got guests. I'ma start takin' this into the kitchen, can you get the dessert wine dear? It's cooling in the spare fridge."

"Sure thing," he says, heading off to the garage while Laura serves the guests drinks in the living room, except for Ennis, who takes iced tea.

The guests seat themselves, settling in for small-talk and Bert pulls out a deck of cards. L.D., on the other hand, sees his opportunity and saunters over to where Ennis is standing, clutching his glass with both hands and looking at the floor, vulture moving in where he senses a man wounded.

"How're things workin' out here for ya here, Mr. Delmer?"

"Good. Thanks."

"Jack sure has been hospitable, huh?"

"Sure has."

"Reckon you're enjoyin' the free ride."

Ennis says nothing, sips his iced tea.

"Jack never did explain t'me why you was here in the first place. Couldn't support yourself no more, was that it?"

He just shakes his head, refusing to rise to the bait.

"We was thinkin' 'bout askin' you t'help out 'round the ranch, but I gotta tell you, friend, you seem pretty incompetent t'me. I ain't ever heard you string more'n three words t'gether at a time. Wouldn't want t'have you workin' with the horses and have him knock the rest a the sense outta your head."

Ennis's lips thin into a hard line. The glass shakes ever-so-slightly in his hands, knuckles locking.

L.D.'s brow furrows; he leans his shoulder the wall, crossing his ankles, and goes for the jugular.

"Fact a the matter is, Delmer, I cain't think too highly a anyone who'd up and leave behind their family like you done. How you think your wife and daughters feel? Jack tells me ya got two girls. Don't imagine you consulted them when you was thinkin' of relocatin' t'Texas, now did you? What kind a father—" L.D.'s words are choked off when Ennis flies at him, one hand around his neck in a steel vise, the other held in a barely restrained fist inches from his face. The guests, surprised by the shower of iced tea that hit them when Ennis threw his glass in their direction, look up from their cards in confusion.

Ennis's eyes are wild, blood-shot, and unseeing. He doesn't seem to notice that tears are falling freely down his face. He leans close to L.D., whispering a threat that makes L.D. swallow, hard, nodding desperately. He slams him against the wall once more before storming out of the room in a cloud of curses.

L.D. pulls at the top of his shirt, rubbing his neck, girdled in raging red.

Jack returns from the garage, wine bottles in hand and senses the tense atmosphere, sees the broken glass. "What hell's goin' on here? Where's Ennis?"

"Ennis goddamned attacked me is what happened, right outta the blue. Don't know what the hell got into him."

"What? What did you say t'him, L.D.? Where did he go?" _Can't be far, he don't have a car here._

"Heard him slammin' the door, must be out front. He was talkin' a bunch a nonsense, most of which ain't fit for repeatin'." L.D. scratches his head, "He also said somethin' about 'how I ought t'have some fuckin' respect for the dead.' Now what in th'hell was he talkin' 'bout?"

Even before L.D. finishes, Jack feels himself coming apart down the center, like a thread pulled out a hem in one swift motion, and he starts trembling so hard that his teeth chatter. Dropping the bottles, he runs to the other side of the house, the words echoing in his head, _the dead, the dead, the dead_.

He opens the door just in time to see Ennis pulling his car out of the driveway.


	13. Part XIII: The Unspeakable

**Part XIII: The Unspeakable**

The truck bunny hops over a pothole, and Jack cranes his neck to the left, to the right, eyes roaming over every bit of sidewalk and into the shadowed alleys; he's gotten used to the impatient honking behind him, pulls over to let them pass without thinking. A wooden sign with the words "The Bronc" invites him to park, and he's in and out of the nondescript bar, _seen my friend, 'bout six feet, blond, quiet type_, seventh dead end today. Entering the eighteenth hour of his personal hell, Jack is beginning to bend at the joints, eroded by the hopelessness of his search. He's checked everywhere he can think of, met only with apologetic shrugs and if he's lucky, directions to another place he can go.

Stopping at the next gas station, he walks zombie-like to the payphone, leaning back against the flimsy plastic wall and closing his eyes. Lureen picks up on the third ring.

"Jack is that you?" She never is one to mince words.

Jack's fine with that. "Still haven't found him," He massages his neck, cramped tight from the strain of his waning hope.

"Well, he's gotta be out there. You need t'come back though, cain't keep lookin' for him, no sense in drivin' yourself off the road. Now when was the last time you slept?"

"Napped on the road. Five hours, prolly." He figures if he's going to lie it may as well be big.

"If you come back here in a body bag I will kill you myself Jack Robert Twist Jr., y'hear me?"

Jack rubs the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose. "If I don't find him in an hour I'll stop by, 'kay?"

"Stop by? Jack, you need some rest, there's no two ways about it. Don't be tryin' a fool me, you didn't catch a goddamned wink out there on the road."

Steel slips into his voice. "Ain't comin' back without 'im."

Lureen sighs theatrically; he can hear her tapping her nails against the wall in the background. "I'll make sure Daddy's not here when you bring Ennis back, all right? You just find 'im quick. I'll take care a the rest."

Jack would have smiled were his heart not so heavy, "Thanks, honey. I really—yeah. I 'preciate it."

"Good luck, ya dummie. Call 'gain soon?"

"Yup. Talk t'you soon."

Jack places the receiver back into the cradle, too exhausted even to sigh. Dragging his feet back to the truck, he rolls into the driver's seat, no will to go on. It would be so easy just to close his eyes for a few seconds, recline in the passenger's seat, catch forty winks. Instead he slaps his cheeks lightly, shakes his head a few times.

_Got to keep at it. Needs you._

He starts the car, driving over to the next town, tries not to think about what Ennis has been doing all this time. _Gettin' drunk, most likely. Or mebbe not... he hasn't touched a drop since he got here._ He tries even harder not to think about why this is happening. After the initial adrenaline rush wore off when he set out yesterday, his mind wandered into ugly places that set him into a panic. _Won't believe none a that. _Jack doesn't trust too many things in life—luck, fate, God, himself for that matter—but this man is his rock, his truth. He knows the worst and best of him, the ups and downs, the nuances of character that make him want to kick Ennis's ass one second and caress it the next, and he came to the conclusion long ago that no matter what, he'd stand beside him. _Nothin' that happened'll change that, so's no use t'think on. Jus' keep on goin'._.

The truck eats up the miles, the white lines of the highway blurring with his determined speed. He winds his way through the streets, eyes primed for a blond head of hair, a weather-beaten canvas jacket, a familiar pair of boots—anything. After checking out the three bars and two gas stations, he prepares to get back on the interstate when he notices he notices a flash of color out of the corner of his eye. A poster, looking like it was painted by a bunch of kids, advertises a fair, promising "Ponies, Cotton Candy, & More!"

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Jack makes the turn, praying that his intuition is wrong, wrong, wrong.

* * *

**Two weeks ago**

Ennis knocked back the beer, didn't notice as it trailed down his neck, lukewarm sticky, fiddling instead with the postcard in his pocket; wanted to take it out and douse it in liquid, wash away the words that Jack had thrown at him. _Fuckin' Jack. Pullin' this kind a shit with me. Who the fuck he think he is, anyway?_ He ordered another drink. Didn't want to think anymore.

Three hours later, he still hadn't achieved his goal, though he'd gotten past drunk and then some. His mind was an angry hornet's nest, his thoughts swirling, a low-pitched whine of panic buzzing underneath. They stung at him, vicious, opening up wounds infected with guilt and anger and denial, wounds created when he turned away Jack's offer for something better.

_And what th'fuck am I s'posed to do 'bout it? Like gettin' on my case like bein' divorced is some kind a free pass t'be queer. _Ennis tasted bile in his throat, mind skittering around the word that came into his thoughts uninvited. That word that cut the first gash that day Jack showed up, postcard in hand, offering dangling off the tip of that tongue darting in and out of his mouth. And even despite the fear, the instinctual self-revulsion, Ennis's chest also swelled with a warmth that he couldn't name but also couldn't welcome.

The three pillars of his life were together for the first time and—it looked like—the last. It had all gone to hell the second Ennis opened his mouth. The confusion in Jack's eyes, the hope and trust and love that folded in on itself under the weight of Ennis's words. The truck driving away, Ennis had wanted to hurtle right after it, fuck it all, we'll all spend the weekend together—but that word had stopped him. It always did.

_Fuck'it all._

He stumbled out of the bar, fists clenched, steps flying asunder as he blinked back tears scorching regret, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. He looked around in confusion for his truck; after the fourth wrong turn, he bumped into its dusty side, the once-white paint long gone gray. The liquor bubbled up in his veins once more, igniting the bitter goodbyes and wishes swallowed whole, dry tinder to the flame of his denial.

_Look at this piece a shit. His trucks're all in spit-shinin' condition. Everythin' so fuckin' easy for him, got his goddamned wife t'take a everythin'. Bet he hasn't worried 'bout money a single day since they got hitched._ _Bastard._ He fumbled with the keys for a few minutes, cursing heartily when he realized he had the wrong one. Once he was in the truck, he went through the same process trying to start it. _Lost another fuckin' job cause a him, and then he sends me this shit. Here I am, sun's high, nothin' to do._ He peeled out of the parking lot, weaving wildly on the road, half-hearing the radio as he squinted at the road, _man of means by no means, king of the road_.

_Yeah, he's a real fuckin' king a th'road all right. Drives up here and then spends the next week complainin' 'bout how hard the ride was. Don't see the goddamned point. Don't even seem t'like comin' up no more. May as well stop comin'._ Ennis's gut churned at the notion. Damned well knew _that_ wasn't what he wanted, but damned if he did know _what_ he wanted. Turning off the radio, he pulled over to the side of the road, head falling onto the steering wheel.

_Seemed like he was happy enough afore. Divorce gave 'im crazy ideas. Can see 'im thinkin' on it, those ideas that'll get us killed. Thought we had it all settled._

Struck by a thought that only makes sense to those heavily inebriated or the thoroughly depressed—Ennis filled both niches right now—he pulled back onto the road with a destination in mind.

_What's Monroe got that I don't anyway? I'll get 'er to see reason. If I'm married 'gain Jack won't have no more crazy ideas._

_Cain't take this no more. Cain't fuckin' take it._ He pulls the postcard out of his pocket, "Return to Sender" in Jack's loopy cursive scrawled across his invitation, and tears it into pieces. _Gonna fuckin' fix it. Gotta make it right again._

_

* * *

_

"Mamma, are we almost there?" Jenny asked, licking her vanilla ice cream.

"Jenny, patience is a virtue. You just 'member that," Alma replied, slowing down at the stop light.

"I don't wanna miss Happy Days! You promised we'd get back in time."

Alma Jr. rolled her eyes, "But you were the one who wanted to stop for ice cream, Jenny."

"Alma, you don't got nothin' nice to say don't say nothin' at all, right, mamma?"

"That weren't quite what I meant, Jenny. But I'm glad you been listenin'."

Jenny smiled smugly at Alma Jr., who just rolled her eyes again. She went back to her ice cream, catching the drips around the edges before they could reach her fingertips. On an especially zealous lick she dislodged the scoop, and she put a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry of surprise, but her mother had already heard.

"Jenny, what happened?" Alma's eyes narrowed and when Jenny didn't respond. She turned, seeing the empty ice cream cone and threw her hands up in exasperation.

"Now look what you—"

The impact was instantaneous death; there wasn't even have time to scream.

And with that, the lives of the three del Mar women were taken by the flinch of a steering wheel, stolen from this world in the seconds it takes to stop a heartbeat.

* * *

Ennis heaved up another round of alcohol laced with bile, the acid smell burning his nostrils, stomach clenched in body-wracking spasms. His knuckles were bloody to the quick, bruised into a hamburger-like pulp, but he still wanted more pain, more hurt. It wasn't near enough. 

When the nausea finally subsided, he got up on shaky legs and hurled himself against the brick wall of the alley. As his face scraped against the rough surface, the red haze took over, temporarily blocking out the images of Alma and his girls, bloodied and battered, bodies contorted, boneless and unnatural, eyes open but unseeing.

Ennis cried as he pounded his fist against the wall, throat raw with anguish. His hot tears fell to the ground, and his body screamed through and through with pain, every cell bursting with the unimaginable torment of what he had seen. _What have I done? What have I done?_

Jack finds Ennis standing in front of the teacup ride, watching the riders spin round and round, cheeks shaded with stubble, clothes wrinkled and heavily soiled. His body seemed to be composed of sand, crumbling with the winds, eroding with the weight of his sorrow, bits and pieces of him falling to the ground in a slow drift. Jack holds his breath, still hopes that maybe he was wrong. He approaches quietly, reaching out a hand but then thinks better of it.

The sounds of delighted terror waft over from the ride, children and adults alike reveling in the ever-increasing speed. Ennis senses Jack approaching and doesn't look over, looks at the ride and to it, voice a flat plane, devoid of all emotion and inflection, "Jenny's favorite. Got sick as can be ever' damn time, but she loved it." The hairs on the back of his neck bristle at Ennis's monotonous tone, cold and dusty like ash. He moves closer, but still does not touch, says nothing, the sickly-sweet smell of cotton-candy adding an aura of unreality.

"I want a miss her. But it still ain't real t'me, and I _seen_ it all. Thought I wouldn't never close my eyes again without seein'."

Jack shifts, the soles of his shoes stuck on some kind of gum, fighting the urge to move closer to Ennis, to stop the flow of words, to shove them into oblivion where they belong.

"But I been forgettin' here."

Lights flash, blinding bursts of red and white when a teenage boy succeeds in hitting the bell with a resounding _ding_; the audience claps and his father slaps him so hard on the back he almost falls over.

"Wanted to kill you that night I came, to make things right somehow. Too drunk to even do that right." He barks out a mirthless laugh, "Scared the shit out a your son when I done it to myself. Maybe that fucker L.D.'s got a point. What kind a father am… was—" People swarm around them coming off the teacup ride, shoulders bumping and mumbled apologies, children chattering in high excitement while the adults hold on to their stomachs, woozy. The crowd clears and the next set of thrillseekers start sliding into the neon-bright plastic cups.

Ennis watches, facial muscles twitching. "Hell…ain't even fit t'call myself…" The anguish vibrates on a hairline fracture, splintering his syllables. He takes a deep shuddering breath before going on, but the words come forth, unstoppable, storm clouds rolling in over the valley. The sounds of the fair dim in Jack's ears as he enters the quiet whirlwind of Ennis's anguish.

"Their bodies wasn't even cold on the pavement," Ennis turns to face him, face full of shadows and eyes bloodshot, red veins a corona of crackling lightning around his iris. The anger picks up speed, the disgust and hurt that's been roiling under the surface all this time, "There I was, pukin' up my guts, still smellin' like the wreck." He pummels his fists into his eyes, words raw and bloody, "And I wanted a fuckin' see _you_." He shoves Jack, sending him back, stumbling. "Why'n the fuck would I want that, Jack? Always makin' me want it like you do, huh?" Ennis comes within inches of his face, and Jack prepares for violence, ready and willing to take whatever Ennis needs to give.

"I want a hate you." But Ennis lowers his head, speaking barely above a whisper, "Nothin' t'keep me in Riverton anymore. Could have that sweet life. That's what I thought. What kind a man thinks that?" And then he crumples to the ground in one fell swoop, heartshot. "Jack, I kil—"

Jack grabs him tight by the shoulders, shaking him, "Don't you say it, Ennis. Don't you fuckin' say it. I don't believe a goddamned word. There ain't no way you done it. No_ fuckin' _way. You hear me?" He grips his face, trying to look into his eyes, "Let's get in the truck and go back, huh? I know… I know there's nothin' I can say. But we'll figure this out, together. I know you ain't done it."

Ennis shakes his head, returning to the safety of the void, eyes empty once more. "Goin' a get what's comin' to me. Better'n I deserve, anyway."

Jack nods, rising, offering Ennis a hand.

"I'll take you."


	14. Part XIV: Hardest Lesson

A man enters the room, flipping through a manila file folder. "Jack Twist?"

"Right here," Jack replies, half getting out of the cheap plastic chair, "Mr. Del Mar and I here were hopin' to talk t'you."

"Lieutenant Ridley. I'd like to speak to you for a few moments, sir, if you don't mind."

"Well, uh…" he looks over at Ennis, who's staring with all his might at his feet. "Sure." _Shit, shit, shit. Just 'member you did _not _come all this way t'have 'im locked up. You'll figger somethin' out. _He gets up and follows Ridley into his office, a small space cramped tight with paper work and brown-ringed Styrofoam, his gut churning with anticipation. The whole scene is surreal. _Ennis don't belong here. No fuckin' way he belongs here._ He repeats these statements in his head, a mantra to ward off the possibilities he won't consider.

Ridley is a man in his fifties, balding a little but not enough to get a sunburn on his scalp yet; he's wearing nice clothes but they're stained with sweat and sprinkled liberally with crumbs. He sets down the file, jots down a few notes in the margins, and then leans back in his chair, giving Jack a very obvious once over, almost skeptical in his evaluation. A fan oscillates on the back file cabinet, circulating the smell of stale nicotine and french fries.

"I know I probably sound like a broken record, but you _are_ Jack Twist?" Ridley asks, scratching his forehead and running his fingers through his budding comb-over.

"Last time I checked. What's this all about, if'n you don't mind me askin'?"

"I sure was surprised t'hear you was here. There's been a lot of confusion around this case, see. That friend a yours—he was real out of it right after the accident. Wouldn't say nothin' 'cept 'Jack Twist.' We thought that was his name. Didn't have no I.D. to show us." The chair squeaks as Ridley leans back, crossing his hands onto his ample belly. "Ain't that unusual after an accident, with the shock 'n all, but this was probably the worst I ever seen. Almost thought he was blind for a few minutes, there, the way his eyes was. We had the meds look 'im over, 'n he was fine; no concussion or nothin', so we sent 'im home after we got his information."

"Sent him home? 'Scuse me if I'm speakin' out a turn… but what in the hell was you thinkin'?" Jack twists his wedding band around his finger, a nervous fidget, suppressing the urge to stand up and pace the room.

"Well, we didn't even figger out who he was 'till we gone to his house the next day. He was supposed to come here the next day for an official statement and when he went MIA we decided to stop by. It was tore up but bad. Door left wide open, furniture everywhere, broken glass. Looked like one hell of a robbery. We put out a missin' persons report for 'im once we checked out who owned the house. Didn't think a lookin' for you, though." He shrugs, a little sheepish. "I feel stupid tellin' ya, though, I didn't think to look for a Jack Twist, sounded like a handle. Just thought it was a name he came up with on the spot."

Jack tries to keep the hope at bay, knowing that if he's wrong the blow will hurt all the more. "…but why'd you let 'im leave in the first place?"

"Why not?" Ridley raises an eyebrow quizzically, "We had no reason t'keep 'im. Nothin' more he coulda told us, anyhow. Pretty obvious what'd happened from the way the cars was laid out."

Jack leans forward, neck bunched up with tension, fingers curled deep into his palms. "So what exactly _did_ happen?"

"He didn't tell you? Thought that's why you brought 'im."

Jack shakes his head, wanting to wrap his fingers around the man's sweaty red neck, wishing he could crawl inside his brain and steal all the memories he wants to see.

"No, he ain't really been talkin'. He tol' me some cock-eyed story 'bout how he kilt his wife 'n kids in a accident." He leans forward, wanting to drive his point home. His expression brooks no disagreement, "I come here so's you can tell me what _really_ happened."

Ridley nearly falls out of his chair, scrambling to keep his balance, feet falling heavily to the floor. "He thinks what?"

Jack nearly screams with the effort of keeping his voice level, frustrated to the point of violence yet held back by the hope gripping tight around his larynx. "He thinks he done it. That he caused the accident."

Ridley straightens up, sitting at the desk properly once more. "Well, hell. He didn't have nothin' to do with it. Fella named Ed Calloway fell asleep at the wheel as far 's we can tell. His Ford slammed head-on into the Chevy. They all died instantly. Mr. del Mar was unlucky enough to catch the tail end of Calloway's car, but he didn't have a scratch on him. Didn't understand why he didn't want to leave the scene, makes sense now though. Wish we'd a known that it was his family. Would a done things a lot diff'rent."

Jack doesn't move a muscle; he can't. The question that's been making him sick since they left the fair finally quiets. _I knew he didn't do it. I did_. But he couldn't stop himself from glancing over at Ennis on the drive over, questions burned at his throat, the doubts creeping in like dark-edged tendrils. Now it's been replaced by sickening guilt and grief. _Fuck, treatin' him like I did when he come to me. Seen his own daughters dead. _Jack feels ill with the reality of it; he'd prayed hard, so hard, that there was some mix-up. That Ennis was wrong about it all.

But ultimately, he knows he only cares about one thing. "So he had nothin' to do with it?"

"Nope."

Jack nods, slowly processing the weight of the words, rolling them around and checking for flaws, finding none. "You mind tellin' him that?"

"Let's bring him in here. Guessin' you're not his guardian then? We thought maybe he wasn't quite right in th'head, well—y'know."

"Just a friend. Man needs friends at a time like this."

"Sure 'nough. We'll straighten this all out 'n get his statement on file, then he won't have to deal with us no more."

Jack heaves a sigh. "Best damn news I heard all week."

* * *

Last screw in and he swings the door shut, closing fully if not smoothly. The damage in the house was severe; all the possessions had been uprooted as if a storm had raged through. He'd spent most of the evening clearing it up while Ennis slept, arranging the furniture as best he could, throwing all the rotten food out of the fridge, sweeping up the broken glass. The place looked so bare when he was done; anyone could have lived here. A few pictures here and there—he put those away, knowing Ennis would want them later—but nothing of a personal touch. 

He cracks open a beer, wiping the dusty sweat from his brow, gulping down the brew, hardly noticing the taste. Washes up as best he can, too tired to take a shower just now; the drives to Wyoming always leave him exhausted, but this one has wrung him out like a rag, squeezed every out every last drop of emotion and left him limp. He heads to the bedroom, walking numb, and nothing sounds better than a bed right about now. Takes off his belt and boots, loosens his shirt but doesn't bother unsnapping it, slips down next to Ennis, placing a hand on his shoulder. _Just so's he knows I'm here_. He begins to drift to the sound of level breathing, heart beating slow and sonorous. He's hardly conscious when he feels Ennis stir in his arms, doesn't understand why the bed starts shaking, pulls him close instinctually. By the time he opens his eyes, he knows what he will see: Ennis crying, not a sound, not a whisper, just shaking like a leaf in the wind, tears hot on his cheeks and wet on Jack's shoulder.

Jack holds him, biting his tongue; he wants to give more, anything he has to give. But sometimes the hardest thing to give is silence, the hardest lesson to learn is withholding.


	15. Part XV: Separations

**Three weeks later**

Jack dashes more salt on his potatoes, shovels them into his mouth without really tasting them; it's been another bad day, hardly more than three words exchanged between them. Jack knows he needs to call Lureen again tonight, stall on questions he has no answers to, but he wants to check on Bobby, make sure that he's doing okay in school, that Lureen isn't being too hard on him. He glances at his watch, half after eight, he'll call at nine. Ennis stabs at his steak, cutting it into tiny bits, but Jack has yet to see one of them end up in his mouth.

"Plannin' on eatin' it or just obliteratin' it?" It's meant to be a tease but carries an edge.

Ennis drops his fork, shoving the plate away from him violently, a scowl twisting his features. "Just fuck off, Jack." He gets up, turning away from Jack and leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, arms crossed and shoulders tight.

"Sorry…sorry. Just askin'."

"Not my fuckin' mother." His boot squeaks against the faded linoleum.

Jack sets his fork down, taking a deep breath. "Not tryin' a be. Just worried, 's all. Ain't hardly been eatin'."

His shoulders and head drop, voice barely above a whisper. "No point."

Jack gets out of his seat, approaching Ennis slowly—he learned real quick not to crowd Ennis after the first night he spent alone here, "Be back in the morning" the only thing Ennis would say on the phone, voice gravelly and choked with grief. He leans against the wall, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Plenty a point. Turnin' into skin an' bones here."

Ennis shrugs off the hand. "Not hungry."

"…'kay. Be there later, you want it."

He watches as Ennis stalks off into the bedroom, biting his lip. _Am I even doin' any good here? Seems like all I do is make 'im mad, half the time. Fuckin' bit my head off about buyin' the wrong brand a milk._ He cleans up the dishes automatically, mind racing with everything he wishes he could do. _What if I took him away from here? Might help, be in a new place for a little while, take his mind off'a…_ _no. No. Wouldn't be right. Not what I'm here t'do. Ain't 'bout him forgettin'. Man can't never forget somethin' like that._ He shudders at the image; he rubs his foot up against his shin where Ennis bruised him last night, thrashing in his sleep. Jack knows what he's dreaming about. He wasn't even there and he can hardly think about it. _Gotta be patient with him. Can't forget what he's been through._ He sighs, turns on the tap and scrubs at the oily grime on the cast iron pan, the residue shining iridescent along the rim of the sink. _Just here for him. Whatever he's wantin'._ Skin pickled from the water, clean dishes stacked in the cupboards, nothing left to do but pick up the phone. Paid the bill on it last week, may as well use the damn thing. He runs his fingers along the beige plastic, picks it up, and listening to the monotonous drone, punches in the numbers with a sigh.

She picks up on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hi, honey. How you doin'?"

"Don't 'hi honey' me, Jack. You was supposed to call yesterday."

_I was too busy tryin' a keep from gettin' black eye._ "Lost track a the date, sorry. Everythin' goin' okay?"

"Everythin's fine 'cept for the fact that you still ain't tol' me when you're comin' back. Bobby keeps askin' me, what do I tell him?"

"Just wrappin' things up here, I'll be back soon."

"'Soon' like you meant last week? 'Cause that ain't gonna cut it anymore, Jack. An' don't get me wrong here. I know what you're doin' is important, I really do. I just need t'know what's happenin'. I got salespeople I'm talkin' to, Bobby waitin' on that fishin' trip you promised him, an' it'd be nice for my own peace a mind t'have at least some idea of when my husband's comin' home."

Jack twists his wedding ring on his finger, tries to formulate an apology that will explain to her without condemning himself. "Lureen, I can't just up an' leave. He's…" he lowers his voice, craning his neck to check that Ennis's door is closed, "he's got no one. All he does is work an' try to act like nothin's happened. Don't even think he'd eat or take care a hisself if I wasn't here."

"'S understandable, losin' his family like he did. But you got your own family, Jack—"

"Ain't forgotten. Not for a second. But tell me what'm s'posed to do? Got me in a rock an' a hard place here, Lureen."

"You asked 'im 'bout comin' back here? You know we got a job for 'im at the ranch. You don't have to worry 'bout my daddy, neither. Gave 'im a dressin' down for treatin' one a my guests like that. Yolanda tol' me all the things daddy said to Ennis. Won't have that kind of behavior in my household, don't care if he is my daddy."

Jack smiles, remembering a few instances when he quaked in his boots under Lureen's words, could peel the paint off a wall. "Woulda paid good money t'see the look on his face, bet you was on fire."

"Oh, well," she says, and he can almost see her averting her eyes at the compliment, "Weren't nothin'. Needed doin'. Anyway, he's welcome here he wants to come. Give 'im a chance t'get back on his feet, if'n he needs it."

_Wish I knew what he needed_. "Talk to him about it tomorrow, then. How's everythin' going with Harold? Still whinin' 'bout his last order? 'Cause I tol' him he had to watch the turns on that model…"

They talk business for the next ten minutes—Lureen has everything under control, as usual. Halfway through arguing about which one of them was supposed to send out the invoice to Mr. Abbott, he hears Bobby's voice in the background.

"Just a second, Bobby, daddy and I are tryin' a talk—aw, hell, Jack, he's about to have a conniption over here, we'll figure it out later. You better call 'gain tomorrow and let me know what Ennis says. I'ma go see if I can find that paperwork for Harold."

"I'll call tomorrow, prolly the same time."

"Don't be makin' me sit here'n call you twenty times tomorrow night, y'hear me? I ain't above drivin' myself to Wyomin' if it comes down to it."

_Don't doubt it for a second. 'S what I'm afraid of_. "Tomorrow. You get that invoice out."

Her grumbling recedes and suddenly Bobby's voice is flooding his ear, "Daddy, daddy, daddy—did mamma tell you? I hit a homerun yesterday! Knocked it right outta the park. Shortstop fell over when I hit 'im with my bat, too, but that was a accident. Coach tol' me we was just tryin' to beat the other team, not kill 'em. But he said 'go'n get 'em, killers' when we started the game, don't that mean we're supposed to?"

Jack blinks, trying to catch up. "Um, I think that's what they call a figger of speech." He's quickly lost in a flood of exuberance, digesting details about gross girls at school and stupid teachers and his friend, Paul, who swears that he can put his whole fist in his mouth. Bobby's voice is like rainfall after a drought, light and carefree and utterly… normal. Jack's face becomes sore from smiling.

"You gonna be back for my next game?"

His smile fades; he crashes back down to reality. "I… sure am goin' a do my best, Bobby."

"Why cain't you come? You can bring Ennis."

"I'll be sure t'ask 'im, Bobby."

A pause. "Could I ask him m'self?"

"Well…" he wavers back and forth, trying to weigh the pros and cons. _Oh, the hell with it. What's the worst he could say?_ "Sure, lemme see if he's awake." He sets the phone down, going into Ennis's room. He doesn't knock on the door, knows what Ennis is doing anyway—but the sight of him curled up on the bed still hits him like a punch in the gut. He sits down beside Ennis, picking up the phone at the nightstand and holding it out to him, "It's Bobby." Ennis opens his eyes, narrowing them at Jack, "Huh?"

"Bobby. He wants t'talk to you."

Ennis seems to consider it for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nothin' a say."

"Don't worry, Bobby'll do 'nough talkin' for the both a you."

Ennis takes the phone, picking up the receiver while glowering at Jack. Jack, satisfied, leaves the room, closing the door with a quiet _click_. He stares at the phone still laying on the kitchen table; resists the urge to pick it up again, although the occasional words drift his way…._third time up at bat…sure wish you'n my Daddy would come…longer in Wyoming?_…_mamma said…_Jack rushes over to the phone when he hears that, hoping that Bobby isn't spilling the beans before he can do damage control.

"…hopes that you'd come back, too. Don't mind my grandpa, he's mean t'ever'body, I wish he was nicer like Paul's grandpa, he always gives me candy when I see 'im."

"Don't think I'll be back in Texas, Bobby, sorry t'say."

"You're not comin' back with my daddy?"

"…don't think so."

"Well, Mr. Ennis, I sure hope you do. My daddy'll be real sad you stay in Wyoming."

"He tell you that?" There's a dangerous note in Ennis's voice, but Bobby is oblivious.

"No, he didn't say nothin'. But when he gets sad he drinks lots, and he didn't hardly drink while you was here. He was drinkin' lots right before you come, more'n we ever seen 'im. My mamma tol' me to stay in my room, but I heard 'em… havin' words."

Jack can't breathe. _Bobby heard that? Christ. What else he heard that he hasn't told us about?_ He hasn't even realized he's stopped listening to the conversation until he hears them exchange goodbyes. He hurriedly sets down the phone and walks over to the fridge, shuffling around the milk carton and sticking his head in. He hears Ennis open the door and sticks his head in farther.

"You can stop pretendin', Jack, you breathe louder'n either of us could talk." He bangs his head on the bottom of the freezer, rubbing his hand over it guiltily. Ennis just smirks and walks back to the bedroom. "Phone's all yours."

* * *

**Two days later**

Jack runs the towel through his damp hair, sitting down on the bed next to Ennis. He's rehearsed his speech about a dozen times, but now that the time has come he wants to make an excuse about going to the store for dinner. Or just pretend that his trip to Childress is a regular one. Let his bags and divorce papers do the talking for him when he returns.

He sits back against the headboard, swinging his legs up, and takes off his wedding ring and rolling it around in his left palm.

"Ennis?"

"Hmmm?" He shifts on the bed, pulling the covers up closer around him.

"Goin' a Childress today."

He squares his shoulders, biting his lip. "Stay for a week. Then… I'm movin' up here."

Nothing. Ennis gets out of the bed, heads straight for the bathroom. The sound of retching nauseates Jack; he closes his eyes, tries to close his ears to the sound, but it invades him, seeps into his skin, soaking him with guilt.

"No fuckin' way." Ennis is barely standing, both hands against the doorway holding him up; his face is white as a sheet and he's covered in a cold sweat.

Jack looks away, unable to hold his ground at the sight of what he's caused, clutching the ring tight. "Goin' a get a divorce, Ennis. I got to. Goin' a do it whether I can come here or not."

Ennis staggers over, falling to his knees in front of Jack. His face is wretched, contorted beyond recognition. "Why?"

Jack sighs, his unable to maintain his strength anymore, putting his hands over Ennis's. "Lemme be real level with you. Ain't doin' no one any favors by stayin'. The whole world knows that L.D. hates my guts, he sure don't pull no punches there. Lureen and I're friends, but we both know it ain't much of a marriage. More like a business partnership than anythin'.

"Hell, even if I didn't know you I'd still be thinkin' 'bout it. It ain't no kind a life to live like this. Almost worse than bein' at Lightning Flat sometimes; least there I always knew I could run away if it got real bad. Cain't run away from a son though, even if Lureen 'n I split. Bobby's for life. Wouldn't have it no other way now, even if when I found out Lureen was pregnant I cursed from here to next Tuesday. Won't never stop bein' his daddy, but I cain't stay there no more. It ain't my life."

He puts his hands on Ennis's face, running his thumbs along his cheeks. "Fuck-all's worked out for either a us, friend. It ain't right, tell you that. But it don't make it right to keep livin' it, neither. Me spendin' all my time fuckin' miserable won't fix a goddamned thing. Just like you killin' yourself won't bring 'em back." Jack takes a deep, shuddering breath when Ennis tries to jerk away. "Tell you what. If I could a taken their place…do it in a second. World'll go on without me. But them girls a yours… didn't never get a fair chance. I'm so fuckin' sorry 'bout that I can hardly stand it." Ennis tries to turn away again, trembling and mouth contorting, but Jack won't let him, coming down the floor to kneel in front of him.

"Just 'member that they're waitin' for you up there. An' I'll think they'd be real sorry t'hear that you spent th'rest a your life beatin' yourself up over what happened. We can't fix this, friend. Damned well wish we could. You just gotta come out the other side, when maybe you can think a them and it'll feel good. I know if I was the one up there waitin' on you, that's what I'd want." Ennis falls apart in his hands, disintegrating, and he holds him close, refusing to let go even when he screams to high heaven, tearing into the guts of his pain, spilling out bile and blood and gore.

Seconds stretch into minutes stretch into hours, the sun slants into the room at uncomfortable angles and burns hot across Jack's shoulder. Ennis groans under him, shifting from where he fell asleep, bringing his hand to his forehead. "Fuck."

"You okay?"

"Mmmm." Ennis sits up, cradling his forehead.

Jack straightens up, popping his neck and rolling his shoulders. "You want some lunch? I gotta head to Childress soon, though."

Ennis drops his hand from his face, turning away from Jack.

"Jack… I—"

Jack's chest clenches. _No. Don't say it._

"I can't do it."

"What're you doing?" He mimes the words although he knows the answer.

"I'm—we're—dishonorin' them. Us, like this."

"Ennis, we ain't dishonorin' no one. We're just livin'."

Ennis rises, walking over to the window. He shakes his head. "Cain't do it, Jack…won't be here when you get back."

The room spins before Jack, breath stolen from his lungs, heart pounding in his ears. He gets up and leaves the room.

Nothing he can say to that.

* * *

They're standing in front of his truck, no more than a foot apart but already the distance is palpable; Jack already feels like he's halfway to Texas. Ennis is looking at the ground, still as a statue and just as responsible. Jack opens the door to his truck, all the familiar feelings sinking into the pit of his stomach.

He turns to Ennis, knowing that these could very well be the last words they exchange.

"You do whatever you need, friend. Hell…I ain't even met 'em but once and I feel like a bull kicked me in th'guts good 'n hard." He pauses, gathering his thoughts. "You need me, I'm here. You take all the time in th'world, friend. 'Cause they's worth ever' minute a sufferin', even if I wish I could tell you they wasn't. Wish t'God I could tell you that." He takes a step closer to Ennis, taking his hands, stiff and cold in his.

"Cain't force you t'take what I'm offerin' Ennis. Done tryin'. Ain't good for neither of us. But you want it… it'll always be there. No quittin' this one, friend." He releases Ennis's hands, stepping back, slipping into the truck.

As he closes the door, he whispers, mostly to himself, "Love you, Ennis. Goddamn me to Hell for it, but I do. Nothin' you can do about it."


	16. Part XVI: Epilogue

**Author's Note: **First off, I'd just like to say: THANK YOU. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read/comment/drop me a note of encouragement. I really can't say how much it means to me, especially since I've never completed anything of this length or intricacy before. I won't lie; I'm positively overjoyed that it's done and really had no idea what I was getting into when I started this. But it's been a great experience. I only wish I'd had more time to work on this ending, but this is what came to me and I'm afraid of editing it into oblivion, so it shall have to stand, mediocre as it is. Sorry if I didn't have a chance to repond to comments individually; I did appreciate each and every one, though, and I also welcome constructive critique, if anyone has some to offer :)

In case anyone's curious I'm not planning a sequel to this story.

Thank you SO MUCH for reading. big hugs all around

* * *

**Part XVI: Epilogue****February 1978**

_Alma lies across from him on the bed; her skin is so white, glowing faintly in the dark. He wants to reach out to her—he always wants to reach out—but when he lifts his arm it is to see Jack's hand instead of his own, thicker fingers, softer knuckles. He can't touch Alma with this hand. She stirs under the covers, like she knows what he's thinking._

"_Ennis, don't bother. We ain't worth botherin' over no more."_

"_But I'm your husband…" he drops the foreign-familiar hand onto the sheets. "I'm your husband." He can't think of anything else to say. Often can't think of what to say around Alma._

"_Never really was my husband. Knew what I was doin', Ennis, when I tied that note to the line. Knew what was happenin'."_

"_Even I didn't know what was happenin', how could you?" Ennis runs those fingers along his lips, tastes Jack's skin, can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. Is he really saying these things?_

_Alma turns; her face shines. Like an angel? Ennis doesn't know what angels look like._

"_Woman can sense these things, Ennis. I knew it long before I saw it. Can't be livin' with a man like you and not have some sense. Just 'cause you don't talk don't mean you ain't tol' me plenty."_

_Plaster falls off the ceiling, cracking along fine lines, flaking their hair like snow. His nostrils fill with the scent of blood and he hears the roar of an engine gunning. Alma is smiling. Ennis begins to rip along his seams, lines tearing through him and exposing raw nerves and wounds never treated. Alma leans forward, holds him by the shoulder, kisses him on the lips._

"_Ennis…" she shakes his shoulder._

"Ennis!" His eyes shoot open at the voice, sharp and high. The hand on his shoulder stops, and he blinks against the light, squinting up.

"Ennis, don't tell me you slept here?" Racine de Beers is kneeling beside him, dressed in clothes that Ennis recognizes well; black dress faded nearly gray, tortoiseshell hat firmly over her hair, brown just like Alma's, and a bouquet of wilted carnations clutched like a life preserver in her right hand. Ennis struggles upright, back stiff and eyes bleary, grass crushed down into the shape of his mourning form. He dusts himself off, trying to smooth the wrinkles in his shirt, avoids her eyes. She notices the deep dark circles under his eyes, the weight he's lost since she's last seen him; he's also grown a beard, ragged and unkempt, but it still doesn't cover his hollowed out cheekbones.

"Son, you can't keep doin' this."

He shrugs. "Not doin' much."

Racine sits carefully on the ground, curling her legs underneath her, sets down her purse and tries to catch his eyes. "That's exactly it. When was the last time you slept in a real bed? It's been three years, Ennis. Three years tomorrow." Racine bites her lip, looks at headstones. "Sarah and Ed are coming with me tomorrow; came a little early because I wanted… well, never mind that. What I was tryin' a say…"

She plucks at the grass, tearing it into tiny bits and twisting it between her fingers. She looks at the headstones once more, monuments to their loss, and seems to come to a decision. Her words, when they come, are clear and unhesitating.

"I'll admit that I was real mad at you when you didn't come to the funeral. Thought you was the biggest mistake Alma ever made, you want a know the truth. Couldn't think what kind a man would do that, divorce or no divorce." She looks at the Ennis-shaped outline next to the graves. "Understand now that I judged you unfair." Brushing the grass of her skirt, she leans forward and places her hand over his, gentle. He sits, unmoving, unable to stop the wash of her words, but unwilling to hear them.

"I ain't here to tell you how to mourn, son. We each do it in our own ways. Sarah still can't look at pictures a Alma, and I respect that—she'll be ready again someday, and I'll keep them all until she is. Ed can't even say her name sometimes, just gets this look on his face like he wished I'd never given him a little sister. Ain't easy for none of us." Her chin trembles and she swallows, taking a breath. "Hardest thing I ever done, outlivin' my daughter and granddaughters. Thought maybe God was puttin' me to the test. Testin' me real good." She swipes at her eyes, closed tight. Ennis opens his mouth, wanting the right words to come out—but all he can do is squeeze her hand, and share every bit of her pain.

She pats him on the leg, smiling sad, taking his other hand in hers. "Ain't never goin' a stop missin' them. I know that… that's why I kept quiet until now. But I gotta tell you—I think Alma's already upset with me for keepin' quiet so long. If my husband was still alive, I think he'd be doin' much the same as you—an' I'd tell him the same thing I'm 'bout to tell you."

"You can't kill yourself on account a them. An' that's what you're doin', there ain't no two ways about it. First time I found you out there jus' thought you'd had yourself a bad day—but I lost count by now how many times I walked away from here pretendin' I ain't see you. I'm thinkin' every day is a bad day for you, Ennis. 'Cause you won't let yourself have no other kind." Ennis closes his eyes, painfully aware of how he must look to her—shirt stained from things he can't even remember, face dusty from cryin' all night, boots worn down to the quick because he can't find the will to get new ones, fingers shaking under hers.

"I ain't tellin' you to be happy. I can see you ain't ready for that. But, please, try'n find some kind a peace. They're up there, watchin' over us. I know that Jenny and Alma would hate to see their daddy like this. Those girls adored you, son; they was near broken when you'n Alma divorced. And even if everythin' wasn't always perfect between you'n Alma, well—she wanted the best for you, even when she was so mad at you she could spit. She was already talkin' 'bout findin' you someone to marry, even 'fore she left." Ennis's head drops, unable to support the weight, and his shoulder stoop. He feels like he's being constricted from the inside out, can barely breath; all the thoughts that he's tried to purge from his mind are being placed in front of him, presented in the light of day, so different from the darkness that has held onto him these three years. Racine's voice begins to break, wavering high and low. "Know she wouldn't want this for you. Can't imagine anyone would."

Ennis lets loose one sob that convulses his whole body, bringing his head down into her lap, curling in on himself. His mouth is open in a soundless scream. She doesn't shy to touch his hair, mottled down and greasy, making quiet shushing noises. He gulps in air, lungs and chest and eyes burning hot with denial, shaking all over.

"You…you don't know what I did." He says, finally, when his jaw loosens, voice gravelly from disuse.

She places her hand on his shoulder, face full of so much compassion that he thinks he might die of it.

"You're right. I don't. But it doesn't matter, Ennis. It's all past us. God forgives all, son, don't forget that. All you have to do is ask." She leans down, places a quick kiss on his forehead, and gets up.

"We'll be here tomorrow, you want a join us. But, please… go home, son. You gotta go home." She leaves, praying with all that she has that she's done some good, because now she has to go home and try to re-stitch up the wound she's so carefully mended.

* * *

**February 1980**

Ennis plunks the keys down in a dish, kept company by three pennies and a box of matches. The trailer still looks like the day he bought it except for the hat he hangs on the wall, held by the trusty nail. He stows the leftovers from Mrs. de Beers in the tiny fridge, gets a glass of water, and changes for bed. He's out like a light as soon as he's under the covers; visiting the graveyard exhausts him like nothing else and he has work early in the morning.

---------------------

_Alma stirs in the onions in the pan; the scent wafts heavy throughout the kitchen, catching in Ennis's eyes, crawling around his mouth. He seems to remember that he liked onions, but he has no appetite right now. Jenny is doodling in her coloring book on the floor, Junior has her head stuck in a book. Alma wipes her hands on the blue apron, brushing strands of hair back from her face and dumps the onions into a clear glass bowl that holds hamburger, red and raw and pulped._

"_Gramma's right, you know," Junior comments casually, taking a bite of a celery stick and turning the page on her book._

"_Wouldn't know what you're talkin' 'bout, Junior," Ennis says, floating out of his chair._

"_Well, she is. Even if you are my daddy sometimes I know better than you." Junior sets her book down, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. Alma laughs a little, mixing the hamburger between her fingers._

"_Miss you, daddy," Jenny says, sticking her tongue out in concentration over her cook, running the black crayon in huge sweeping lines over the page. "Miss you real bad."_

_Ennis feels like he's evaporating; the tears wash down his face. He doesn't even notice them, they are more natural to him than smiling has ever been._

"_Miss you, too, Jenny. Can't tell you how much I miss you…hurts ever' day."_

"_Don't want you to be sad, though, daddy." Jenny closes the coloring book, places the crayons carefully back in the box, and comes up to sit beside Junior. Jenny rests her head on Junior's shoulder and they hold hands._

"_Don't know how else t'be, darlin'."_

_Alma fills the casserole dish with the hamburger and washes her hands off, coming to stand beside Ennis._

"_Don't mind your daddy, girls. He never was one to move quick." She tries to put her hand on his shoulder put it passes through him, an unsubstantial specter._

_Don't want a move. Want a stay here, he thinks, wiping the blood off his face._

_Alma sits at the head of the table, untying her apron, and looks at Ennis, glowing and pale before him._

"_Here don't exist no more, Ennis."_

_

* * *

_

**November 1983**

"Shoulder feelin' okay?" Nero asks, setting down the pitcher at the small table, sliding into the booth across from Jack.

"'S better, not great. Fuckin' Harley don't know his own strength, always throwin' me and looking surprised that he done it."

Nero laughs, filling up both their mugs. "Need a get yourself a trainer for 'im."

"No money." Jack shrugs, taking a long sip from with a satisfied grunt. "Now don't that taste good after a hard day a work."

"Hard is right. You wasn't kiddin' when you said you'd need some help today."

"Wouldn't a asked you otherwise. Know you busy back at the ranch." Jack leans back in his seat, unbuttoning his thick wool coat.

"How many times I gotta tell you, boss-man, just say the word an' I'll come up here full time."

"If'n I can wrastle up the dinero, might take you up on that. Last guy I hired seemed to think this place was great for settin' up a crack lab or some shit like that."

"No wonder he always looked like he was 'bout to bust an eyeball. Tol' you you can't trust no guy named Billy Bob Davey Howard. Too many first names, 's suspicious."

Jack chuckles. "Reckon you did say somethin' like that after all. Let you take on all the new hires I ever get this place goin', you got a keen eye for people."

"Speakin' a that…" Nero fidgets with his mug, spinning it slowly in circles. "Got a friend you should meet. Name a Drew. Knows horses, might be able to help ya with Harley, mebbe."

Jack smirks, rubbing the spot on his finger where his wedding ring used to be. "Worryin' 'bout my socializin' again, Nero?"

Nero shrugs, looks a little sheepish. "Seems t'get kinda lonesome up here, 's all."

"Not so bad. Enjoy the peace and quiet after Bobby's been here, swear that boy's tryin' a talk my ear off."

"Think he saves all them words up. Won't hardly tell Lureen nothin', said she'd be tempted to take a switch to him if she weren't such 'gosh-damned reasonable woman.'"

"Now that's a sight I'd pay t'see. Only seen her lose her cool but once, and it weren't when we signed the papers, neither."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, one night she was three sheets to the wind, first time, too, I think…"

They drink companionably until the yawns work their way in, achy muscles asking to be put to bed, and Nero covers the tab, insisting that Jack save the money to get himself a trainer. They stop in front of Jack's truck, an old beat-up blue thing that's seen far better days. They shake hands, make promises to get together again soon, and just as Jack's about to get in the truck, Nero turns around, shifting from foot to foot.

"Forget somethin'?" Jack asks, holding his door half open.

"Was just wonderin'…" Left foot, right, left foot, right foot. "Is he doin' okay?"

Jack doesn't have to ask. "Yeah. Better. Doin' better."

"Glad t'hear it. Hope… well, hope you get a chance t'meet Drew. He's good people. Talk t'you soon." Nero heads off with a wave, disappearing into the dark of the night. Jack shakes his head, smiling a little, and heads home, pleasantly buzzed and sleepy enough that he won't have to worry about tossing and turning tonight.

He tries not to think about how good it was to hear another man's voice; tries not to think about the voice it is that he really wants to be hearing. He shifts in his seat, bones aching and tired. He knows his little operation will never get off the ground, but he derives some satisfaction from the fact that he's his own man, making his own way in the world. _Don't have to put up with L.D.'s bullshit no more._ He grimaces a little. _Just my own._

Pulling into his drive, truck bumping down the dirt road, he sighs. _Plenty a that t'go 'round._ The side of the house, cracking white, is lit up in his headlights. He stares at it for a second. _Just one cigarette, then I'll go in._ Getting out of the car, he lights up, propping his left foot back against the door.

He squints when he sees headlights approaching, sure that he's seeing things. _Nero?_

As it approaches, the cigarette dangles from his lips, forgotten. _Can't be._

The white truck pulls in quickly, skidding to a stop on the other side of the driveway. He hears the door open, slam, and then Ennis is walking around the back of the truck straight toward him. He stops about ten feet from Jack, scuffing his boot.

"Had t'ask about ten different people in Childress where you was livin'." He bites his lip; his face looks red as if he's recently shaven, hair combed down flat on his head, new boots shining dully in the porch light.

Jack narrows his eyes at Ennis. "What you doin' here?"

Ennis takes a step closer, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets.

"Got your postcard."

Jack fights it, the warmth spilling out of his eyes and into his chest, expanding and diffusing and making him think that maybe, after all this time, there's hope. He laughs, looks at Ennis incredulously.

"Sent it two years ago."

"Said…said come anytime. So here I am."

"Here you are." Jack's voice cracks on the words; he can't believe them, won't believe them. Not after all the nights alone. Can't believe them.

But then Ennis looks up at him, face scrunched up like he's expecting to be run off the property, kicking the back of his heel on the front of his boot, looking so uncomfortable in his clothes, not a speck of dirt on them. Maybe even wearing cologne. And no of it matters a whit, because everything that matters is staring Jack right in the face. He's moving so fast he can't see, arms going around Ennis all at once, breathe pressed right out of them, tears flowing hot and fast down Jack's face, lips seeking and finding, finding like they were never apart, mumbling meaningless sounds and it tastes like the home they never knew they had.

Jack finds himself speaking it like a mantra against Ennis's ear. "Here you fuckin' are. Here you are." And when they finally pull apart, he meets Ennis's eyes, so clear and so fine, and he can see that this time—it's for good.


End file.
